


The Roommate Diaries

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Diary/Journal, M/M, New York City, Post Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira Williams is the friend of Daphne with whom Justin tells Brian he's going to stay when he moves to NYC.  She's less than thrilled that she'll be sharing her small apartment with someone, especially an artist with a moody, unpredictable older boyfriend.  But proximity breeds familiarity which in turns breeds affection (that is, if we're lucky).  Moira finds herself rooting for a relationship she first believed was (and should be) doomed - the big question is whether cheering Justin and Brian on is enough to keep them together.</p><p>
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</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Alright, I’ll admit it: I’m not psyched about the idea of having a roommate again. I’ve gotten used to living on my own. I’m a writer, and I work at home, which means that when I find my groove, I spend every waking second writing while everything else goes to hell in a hand basket. Dishes don’t get washed. Clothes don’t get hung up. The recycling bin overflows with empty wine bottles. Vegetables rot in the refrigerator, and fruit flies erupt from moldy tangerines like bats from Carlsbad Caverns at sunset. I only pick up when I’m blocked, which means cleanliness is a sure sign that even the smallest provocation will make me psychotic. Seriously. No joke. I’m just one pill away from another DSM IV disorder even in the best of times.

Now that Daphne’s “oldest bestest friend” is coming to live with me, I’m going to have to keep things tidy even when I’m nearing Barbara Cartland-like prolificacy. And I’m also going to have to shop regularly so I won’t be tempted to eat his food. But Daphne let me crash with her during one of My Bad Times, so I owe her a favor. I don’t like being in debt to anyone – not even one of my closest friends – so I’m eager to clear the accounts. Even if it means I’ll be sharing utensils and highly contagious stomach viruses with an artist for who the hell knows how long. Besides two lawyers, the combination of a writer and an artist in a small apartment is the worst co-habitation arrangement known to man. We’ll always be freaking out, drinking, bribing our muses, whining, threatening to kill ourselves over rejection letters, worrying about where our next rent check will come from, and considering careers as dental hygienists or pole dancers or both.

Good times.

 

 

Okay, Justin’s cute. It’s a known scientific fact that cute people are more tolerable than non-cute people – cuteness (especially of the blond, blue-eyed, perky-nosed variety) is a highly effective social lubricant. He’s like pink Betty Crocker frosting; I want to put on pajamas, curl up in front of the T.V. and eat a container of him. And it’s a good thing he’s cute because he’s also noisy, entitled, histrionic, overly fond of ultimatums, and a major asshole before he’s had his morning coffee. If he isn’t keeping me awake having orgiastic phone sex with the Mystery Boyfriend, he’s keeping me awake with his porn and crappy 90s rave music. I swear to God, if I hear Rage Against The Machine one more time, I will use his C.D.s to scare away the yowling alley cats . . . and, yes, the pigeons too. Have you ever tried to write with a cacophony of coos outside your window? No? Then don’t judge me, bro. Ditto re: the tenth repeat of “Bullet in the Head.” He’s too blond, blue-eyed and perky-nosed to be a convincing gangsta.

He’s also the most slovenly gay guy I’ve ever met. He lives in t-shirts, sweatpants or pajama bottoms and shirts that belong to the M.B., who must be significantly taller than him because when Justin wears them, he looks like a little boy trying on his daddy’s clothes. When I ask when I’m going to get to meet the M.B., he says annoying things like “never” and “in your dreams.” When I ask him why, he tells me that the M.B. doesn’t like the East Village. WTF? Who doesn’t like the East Village? It’s like hating puppies and cupcakes – i.e. just wrong.

“So he’s more West Village?”

Justin shakes his head. His mouth is stuffed with Coco Puffs even though it’s nine at night. “TriBeca,” he says, spraying chocolaty goo. “Maybe midtown.”

“Not SoHo?”

“Too trendy.”

“Not the Upper East Side?”

“Too many hedge fund managers.”

“What about Chelsea?”

“Too many posers.”

“Harlem?”

“Too gritty.”

“Well, then what about Brooklyn?”

He just looks at me, frozen mid-chew, as though I’d spoken in one of those African click languages.

“Brooklyn?” he asks disbelievingly. “Have you been in Brooklyn lately? There’s barely room on the sidewalks with all the strollers and rescue dogs in the way.”

“So, too family oriented, huh? But it’s not like only heteros live there – I always see a million gay and lesbian families when I visit my friends, Pooka and Sam.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Justin says, raising the bowl to his mouth and slurping down the leftover milk. “And who names their kid ‘Pooka’?” he adds, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Former hippies with excessive body hair and lazy grooming habits. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask how old you are, and I won’t believe you if you say anything greater than ten.”

He rolls his eyes, and then his cell phone rings. He reads the caller I.D. before he answers and then trots to his bedroom, closes the door and proceeds to whisper like I used to do when a boyfriend called my parents’ house when I was a teenager. 

Like I said, he’s cute in the kind of way that a baby hedgehog is cute. Btw, cute or not, you can catch a deadly form of salmonella from the little bastards. True fact. 

 

Justin gets a million jobs at various dining establishments and ends up with no time to work on his paintings (one of which is taking up half the living room). He complains about this constantly.

“How do artists succeed in New York if their expenses are so high they have to work 24/7 at shitty menial jobs?”

I just look at him. “I’ve been here three years, and in that time I’ve had at least twenty-four shitty menial jobs. Do you see stacks of my latest best seller at Borders?”

“Three years,” he says mournfully. “I don’t _have_ three years.”

“You’re not even twenty-five. What do you mean you don’t have three years? What’d you think was going to happen? That you’d swoop into New York, wow the critics, make a million dollars and fly back to Pittsburgh?”

“Something like that,” he says in a little voice that makes me feel like an asshole.

“Christ, what’s the rush? Shit takes time. Relax and enjoy the wild ride of trying to find your gold at the end of the rainbow in the Big City.”

“The longer it takes me to make it here, the longer it’ll be before I can go back home. I want to be home. I don’t want to be here. All the gallery owners are assholes. Other artists are assholes. The critics are assholes, and my friend, Lindsay, was kind of an asshole to make me believe there was more for me here than in Pittsburgh.”

I sigh. “So this is about the M.B., huh?”

He shrugs. Of course it is. He looks miserable. I decide to throw him a rare bone.

“He must be pretty special if he can rival the City That Never Sleeps.”

He lifts his head and smiles at me. “Yeah,” he says. “He is.”

The next day he quits two of his part time jobs and by the end of the week the Painting That Ate The Living Room is finished.

 

 

The thing about which Daphne failed to adequately inform me is that Justin is madly in love with a jerk. It happens, I know. At least 90 percent of my friends have married or otherwise coupled-up with jerks. I know jerks. Heck, I’ve even dated a few. And, yes, it’s true that jerks come in many different flavors: There’re cheating jerks, selfish jerks, newly Born Again jerks, jerks with mother issues, jerks with father issues, jerks who give you crabs, and, of course, Republicans. But the M.B. is a newly discovered species of jerk. He’s like one of those creepy beetles on a remote island that no one’s ever seen before. Which, of course, makes him both fascinating and repulsive. Perhaps that’s the allure.

Also, like all my Friends With Jerks, Justin waxes poetic about, dreams unrealistic dreams about, and bitches about the M.B. way too much. He can tell me he’s had The Best Day Ever and then emerge from his bedroom looking suicidal after talking with the M.B. Alternatively, he can me tell he’s had The Worst Day Ever and then emerge from his bedroom after talking to the M.B. glowing radiantly and eager to do his dishes instead of leaving them for me for a change.

Also, like all of my Friends With Jerks, Justin makes excuses for the M.B. He’s “going through a rough patch.” He’s “mercurial.” He’s “damaged.” He’s “afraid to let himself get close to someone.” He “means well.” He’s “never felt safe enough to express his real feelings." He's "complicated," and then there's my favorite: “It’s not all his fault, it’s mine too.”

I have the same conversation with Justin that I’ve had with virtually every girlfriend I’ve had over the years:

“Can’t you see he’s making you miserable? You’re suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Look, let me help you change your locks/apply for a restraining order/hold the phone book so the ass-kicking you’ll give him won’t leave bruises.

He doesn’t like our fireside chats and swears convincingly that he will never try to talk to me about the M.B. again only to break his oath the next day because he needs to rave to someone about the crumb of affection that the M.B. had behooved to throw him.

“He’s really not as bad as all that,” Daphne says. “He’s done so much for Justin. He’s protected him and cared for him and helped him out at every turn. Don’t be so judgmental just because he’s got a few flaws.”

A few flaws. Like periodically disappearing off the face of the earth for days for no reason he cares to disclose to anyone, including his boyfriend?

“He’s like a really shitty father,” I say to Justin. “The kind that goes on week-long drinking binges, spending his paychecks on booze and abandoning his family with no warning.”

Justin looks at me and frowns. He’s thinking. “That’s the perfect analogy,” he says. “It really is.”

Go me.

“Which means you’re going to call him on his shit?”

“Which means I can see why people like your writing. You’re very observant.”

I throw up my hands. The compliment, of course, is sweet, but the failure to address the underlying issue is just fucking annoying.

“You and he will get along great,” he says. “You have similar senses of humor.”

Backhanded compliment or shameless ploy to get me to drink the M.B. Kool-Aid? You decide.

 

 

They must’ve had an even bigger fight than usual because the M.B. suddenly shows up and leans on the doorbell like the pizza delivery guy. Then he presses the intercom and yells, “Justin, get your ass down here _right now_!”

“Sounds like a real charmer,” I say as Justin grabs his coat and shoots out of the apartment like a NASA rocket. I put “Friends” on mute so I can hear what they’re shouting at each other about all the way up the five flights of stairs. Hey, give me a break! I’m a writer. Any writer worth her salt is a shameless eavesdropping voyeur.

“Don’t you _ever_ hang up on me again!”

“Then don’t ever call me a spoiled little rich kid!”

“Well, you called me a climber!”

“It was a _joke_! Why do you always have to take everything I say so literally?”

“Because you’re a twat! How am I supposed to know whether you’re being sarcastic . . .”

“Says the king of sarcasm! Jesus, Brian, you can dish it out, but you sure can’t eat it!”

Suddenly they come bursting through the door like a Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner tornado. They’re both red-faced and panting and trying to kill each other with their glares.

I stand up. “Hey, nice to finally meet the M.B. I’m . . .”

He doesn’t even look at me. I could be the lava lamp on the coffee table for all he cares.

“Listen, Sunshine. _You’re_ the one constantly telling _me_ that I make everything too complicated. That I shouldn’t read so much into every little thing you say . . .”

“Well, it’s true . . .”

“God, just shut the fuck up, will you? I didn’t come all the way here to play ‘yes, you did, no, I didn’t’.”

“Then why _did_ you come here?”

The M.B.’s only response is to grab Justin’s chin and proceed to chew his face off. I’ve heard of Zombies, but I thought they only existed in fiction. Silly me.

Then they're off to Justin’s bedroom before I can renew my attempt to appear on the M.B.’s radar. For several minutes I can’t tell if they’re fucking or fighting. There’s a lot of thumping and growling going on. It goes on _forever_. I call Daphne.

“Dude. WTF?”

“So you finally met Brian did you?” The bitch is laughing. “Flatter his wit and wait on him, and he might ask your name.”

“You don’t understand. He showed up here all menacing like some kind of hot guy Hulk. He and Justin screamed at each other, and now they’re either fighting to the death or making ass babies. I can’t tell. It’s disconcerting.”

“Ass babies or not, don’t mention babies around Brian. It’s a sore subject. Oh, and don’t mention Rockport shoes, monogamy, suburbia, Costco, fruit daiquiris, chocolate martinis, cuddling, puppies, violins, cheap furniture, and anything involving mayonnaise.”

“Well, that pretty much leaves us nothing to discuss other than why is he a crazy person who wants to kill my baby hedgehog?”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

I sigh. “Seriously. What if Justin’s bed falls through the floor? You’ve seen this place. You know the walls are made out of moldy cardboard.”

She laughs again. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. They’ve had lots of practice.”

“Clearly.”

“You do have to admit he’s gorgeous though. Cover his mouth with duct tape, and you’ll look forward to his visits. He’s not easy to listen to, but he’s definitely easy on the eyes.”

“Now I know why MacGyer always said that duct tape has 101 uses. Will it help if I pound on the door and tell them to keep it down? I have a gynecologist appointment at noon tomorrow.”

“Noon counts as early?”

“It does when you’re a writer with a penchant for drinking strong coffee and cheap wine – at the same time, that is.”

“Bad habit. Don’t corrupt Justin.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that comment with a response. If you were here right now, you’d know why that’s complete B.S. Whatever’s going on in there, it certainly doesn’t sound like the tender coupling of virgins.”

“True, but he’s innocent in so many other ways.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it despite the sheer lack of evidence. Good thing the old lady upstairs is a hoarder and can’t hear anything through the piles of shit in her apartment. And good thing our next door neighbor is an illegal immigrant. He keeps a low profile.”

“Listen, Derek’s here,” she says. “I gotta go. Don’t worry, okay? It’s not like Brian is going to move in with you guys. My bet is that after he’s gotten off a few times, he’ll take a look around and realize what a shithole you live in, and then he’ll be out of there like a bat out of hell.”

“In other words, he’ll leave in the same shape he arrived in.”

She laughed. “Bye-bye, Moira. You’ll live. I have faith in your survival skills. You’ll be the only human keeping the Twinkies and cockroaches company after the Apocalypse.”

“Gee. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered. Nighty-night, Daffy.”

It turns out that Daphne was right (as always). The M.B. leaves as abruptly as he’d arrived. When he’s gone, I ask Justin what they’d been fighting about. He frowns as though I’d presented him a difficult algebra problem. “I can’t remember,” he says and then grins that blinding grin. “But whatever it is, we’ll have to do it again. The make-up sex was _more_ than worth it.”

“Not if you want to live within a mile radius of me,” I say. “Next time get a hotel room. You guys even managed to scare that giant rat I’ve seen every night for three years. He didn’t stick a whisker out of whatever the fuck hole he lives in.”

Justin laughs the same insouciant laugh Daphne had the night before, but then winces when he flops onto the couch.

“My ass hurts,” he says.

“Thanks for sharing,” I reply.

“No problem. Daphne likes to hear the details too.”

“I was kidding.”

He just looks at me and grins. “No, you’re not.”

I glare at him and go back to bed.

 

 

Last I knew (although given the amount of cheap wine I’ve been drinking I’d get a second opinion if I were you), Justin isn’t black. Or six feet tall. Or speaks with a Jamaican accent. But there’s the living proof right in front of me wearing one of Justin’s towels around his waist and brushing his teeth with Justin’s toothbrush. Jesus, I need a new prescription – for my contact lenses, I mean, not my bipolar muesli mix.

“Hi, mawn,” Black Justin says.

“The name’s Moira. By the way, have you seen a cute little blond twink running around? He still owes me last month’s rent.”

Black Justin stares at me. It’s awkward.

“Sooooooooo,” I say later after Black Justin left and Blond Justin flopped down on the couch. “How’s Heathcliff going to feel about your new fuck buddy?”

He makes a face. “Heathcliff? Does that mean I’m Cathy because I am _not_ Cathy. Cathy is unstable and histrionic . . .” 

“Which is why she’s Heathcliff’s soul mate because he's unstable and histrionic too . . .”

“Two crazy people shouldn’t end up together . . .”

Shit. If that’s true, I need to break up with that guy I met in line at the pharmacy.

“. . . Brian is the crazy one. He needs someone who's grounded to look after him.”

“But what about you? Dude’s within spitting distance of a restraining order. How many times has he shown up here threatening to huff and puff and blow the building down if you don’t show yourself in five seconds?”

“It’s because he loves me. He can’t help it.”

How sweet.

“Okay,” I say. I pour myself a mug and flop down beside him, causing him to spill his coffee down his front.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime. Stop trying to distract me. Do I have to worry about Heathcliff firebombing the place? I don’t know about you, but I’m not particularly fond of the smell of napalm in the morning.”

He looks at me with genuine bafflement. “What are you talking about?”

“Hello! Hot black guy, and don’t try to tell me he’s an old friend who needed to crash on your floor.”

Justin still doesn’t look enlightened.

“That guy you ran into earlier?”

“‘That guy’? Do you mean to tell me you don’t even know his name?”

“Not important, the only information I cared about was the size of his dick.”

“Nice. Sounds like true love. Heathcliff is going to freak the fuck out if he learns you’re sleeping with other guys. I don’t want to end up as collateral damage.”

To my astonishment, he starts laughing as though I’m Dave Chappell. “What’s so funny? You may think he’s adorable, but Heathcliff scares the shit out of me. Aren’t you worried you’re going to wake up one of these days to find a horse head in your bed?”

“Ew. Who wants to fuck a horse?”

I sigh. Perhaps reason can prevail. “Look, seriously, I’m worried about you. You may use up my shampoo and encroach on my side of the fridge, but you’re still something that resembles a friend. Heathcliff will go postal. He’s already partially unhinged. You piss him off by refusing to let him pay for our garbage pick-up; what the hell do you think will happen when he finds out you’re fucking other guys?”

“The reason I won’t let him pay for our garbage – or anything else for that matter – is that he’s _always_ been there paying for everything. He’s always helped me out. I came here to prove to myself I can make it on my own. I don’t want his help, and he knows it, so I get really pissed off when he offers, which, in turn, makes him really pissed off.”

I’m getting frustrated. I’m beginning to see why Heathcliff calls Justin a twat almost as often as he calls him sunshine. “Look,” I snap. “I don’t care about the fucking garbage or your Quest for Manhood and Freedom. What I care about is that he’ll find out you fuck other people . . .”

He scoffs and waves his hand at me dismissively. “He fucks other people too – always has, always will.”

I gape at him. Even Pooka and Sam swing _together_ , and they’re about as independent as two spouses can be.

“Rrrright. So you’re just fine with Heathcliff fucking around, and he’s just fine with you fucking around. Where did you register? Crate and Barrel or Divorces ‘R’ Us?”

Rather than earning me a giggle, Justin glares at me. Sensitive subject or flatulence? After all, I have been feeling rather gassy lately.

“Prada and Pottery Barn, if you really _have_ to know.”

I stand up and carry my empty mug into the “kitchen” which is really just part of the living room, which, itself, is really the entire fucking place. Except, that is, for our matchbox-sized bathroom and bedrooms, which are smaller than most of SoHo’s lofts’ walk-in closets. But then again, you have to be poor and underfed for years if you want to be a writer (or an artist). It’s in the “How To Die A Talented Pauper Handbook,” chapter one, after the part about mooching off friends for a living.

Prada? Who registers with Prada?

“You and Heathcliff were never engaged. Daphne’s tried to convince me otherwise, but I am neither stupid nor crazy enough to believe her.”

“Fine, don’t believe me,” he grumbles.

“Jesus, if it really is true, all I can say it that you dodged a major bullet. Dude’s got 'Husband from Hell' written all over him. Yeah, he’s hot and all, but what good is hot when he’s locked you in the basement and is feeding you bread and water through a slat in the door?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Brian lives in a loft; he doesn’t have a basement.”

Alright, I give up.

“I just don’t want to end up in the middle. Last I knew, this building was called ‘Hudson Heights,’ not ‘Wuthering Heights.’ I’ve had more than enough drama in my life, and I don’t need any more.”

He stands up and comes over to put his arm around my shoulders.

“Heathcliff’s not going to be angry that I fuck other guys. He’s a hypocritical shit if he is. Stop worrying, and enjoy the hot guys I bring home. I don’t beer goggle; all the tricks I pick up will be gorgeous, I promise.”

Great. More hot gay guys. Just what a horny heterosexual girl needs. He kisses me on the cheek. He’s never kissed me on the cheek before. I try not to be mollified.

It doesn’t work.

 

 

It turns out that Justin was wrong. Heathcliff _is_ a hypocritical shit. 

The little twat isn’t home when I hear the buzzer. It goes on and on and on. I know I didn't order Chinese food so the only explanation is that I'm about to get a social call from hell.

“Justin’s not here,” I say over the intercom, which is a polite way of saying “Go the fuck away, you crazy person, before I call the police.”

I don’t know what I’d expected to hear, but it certainly wasn’t nothing at all.

“Are you still there?” I ask after a minute.

“Yeah,” he says.

It’s Manhattan in February out there, and Heathcliff had crawled here over the blasted heath otherwise known as Pennsylvania. He may be a domestic incident waiting to happen, but he’s still a (mighty fine looking) man. I couldn’t let him curl up on the front steps and die of hypothermia like the fucking Matchstick Girl.

“Want to come up?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise not to go all bunny-boiler on me?”

He laughs, which is a mark in his favor. Anyone who doesn’t remember Glenn Close in “A Fatal Attraction” is either culturally illiterate or born sometime after 1980. I let him in.

He looks like shit – well, at least as much like shit as he’s capable of looking. He’s also obviously sobering up after a marathon binge.

“Hair of the dog?” I ask from the “kitchen.”

“Whisky if you have it,” he says. “Otherwise gin.”

“Whisky’s not a problem – I spent a year fucking my married professor at Dublin University. Junior year abroad and all that. But gin’s out of the question. Ever get nose-puking drunk? If you have, then you know what I’m talking about.”

“Who hasn’t got nose-puking drunk?” he asks, peeling off his soaked jacket and hanging it on the doorknob. “I spent my adolescence nose-puking drunk.”

“Then you’ll appreciate the horror when I tell you my gin that night was mixed with bitter lemon. Burned my nasal passages. Couldn’t smell a damn thing for a week.”

He laughs and accepts the glass I hand him. He throws it back, and I pour him another couple fingers.

“I’m fucking wet,” he says as though he’s only just noticed he’s dripping all over the matted seventies brown and yellow shag carpet. At least, I _think_ it’s brown and yellow. Once upon a time it might’ve just been yellow, but to survive life as a starving liberal arts grad in Alphabet City you had to block such questions from your mind or go running back, screaming, to the Kansas you came from.

“I’m sure there’s something in Justin’s closet you can wear. You’re bigger than him, but then again he wears sweatpants large enough to fit a village in.”

He laughs again. He has a nice smile. When it’s genuine, that is. When it’s not, it looks like a grin on a wolf.

He goes to Justin’s room and changes into sweatpants and one of his own shirts that Justin must’ve used while he was painting because it’s splattered with blues and greens. Justin’s favorite colors.

He sits down on the lumpy couch and stares into the refilled glass I gave him. He looks more miserable than menacing. 

“Do you know where he is?”

I open a beer and sit down beside him. “Nope. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

He nods, and then after a minute, he speaks. “I called him on a friend's cell ‘cause I’d left mine at the office by mistake. He must’ve not recognized the number. He answered and snapped that he was busy, call back later. I could hear gay club music in the background; trust me, I know gay club music when I hear it. He sounded breathless. I knew he was getting his cock sucked.” He scrubs his face, making his damp hair stick up. “I shouldn’t fucking care,” he says. “In fact, I should be proud of him. He’s fucking. He’s getting off. He’s having fun. I do it . . . well, I _used_ to do it all the time, myself, even when we were living together. It’s what I did. It’s what fags should do. Monogamy’s a joke. It’s a fucking trap that only straight people should fall into, not queers.”

He pauses to look at me. “No offense,” he says.

“None taken. More?” I flick his glass.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” he says.

I just hand him the bottle. He laughs again. He has a nice laugh. He should laugh more often.

Again, he’s silent for a while, but after a couple swigs he continues. “It makes me fucking _crazy_. Knowing he’s fucking someone else. And I know I’m hypocrite. Neither you nor he needs to tell me that. It’s just . . .”

He puts the bottle on the floor and covers his face with his hands.

“It’s just what?” I find myself asking.

“It’s just that it’s _him_. We’re different that way. He falls in love. I don’t . . . or at least I didn’t, and I’m sure as hell not going to again. But he’s fallen in love with someone else before, and he’s going to do it again. Shit, he’s only 22! Of course, there’re going to be other men. He’s a romantic. He gets smitten and seduced. Fucking is never just fucking for him, no matter what he says.”

I place a (very) tentative hand on his shoulder. “He loves you,” I say. “I know he does. I see him every day. I know. He doesn’t even ask the guys’ names. He doesn’t seem to care. I’ll admit it doesn’t sit well with me, but then again, I’m just a sappy straight girl, right?”

He lifts his head and his lips hint at another smile, but he’s frowning and exhausted . . . and obviously afraid.

“I know I should hope that he finds someone – someone younger, someone more like him – but the thought makes me sick. I’m tired. I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves me.”

He looks at me as though I’m someone who can assure him that it would never happen, that Justin would never leave him, but I can’t. Justin is just a roommate. We’ve only barely stuck our toes across the border between acquaintances and friends. Yes, I know he loves “Seinfeld” and is ridiculously decorous in his table manners even when he’s eating Ramen Noodles. I even know he wears socks to bed (long story). But I don’t know – for sure, that is – if he’s going to stay with a man more than twelve years his senior for the rest of his life. Gorgeous and rich only goes so far – especially when one of the two has an expiration date. 

Suddenly, he stands up as though he’s made some kind of momentous decision. Given how much he’s had to drink, whatever that decision is cannot possibly be a good one. I stand up too.

“I’m going home,” he announces. “Don’t tell him I was here.”

Fuck. This was _exactly_ the situation I’d wanted to avoid. The go-between, the fake alibi witness. I’ve done enough lying and manipulating to know nothing good ever comes of it. Ever.

“Sorry, no can do,” I say.

He looks at me with an expression that clearly translates into “I’m not used to people saying ‘no’ to me.” I stand my ground.

“So, what you’re saying is that when he comes home – whenever the fuck that’ll be – you’re going to tell him that I was here sniveling like a girl into a sour apple martini?”

“Whoa,” I say, suddenly angry and remembering this was Heathcliff I was dealing with, not John Boy Walton. “I like sour apple martinis. Don’t knock 'em before you’ve tried 'em.”

He stares at me. There’s clearly some kind of struggle taking place in his head, but whatever it is, it results in a reprieve for me.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Besides, Justin should know just how much of a head case I’ve become since he left. It’s only fair. I used to be the strong one. I’m not anymore. Tell him I was here and that I left and that I hope he finds what he's looking for.”

Great. 

“Anything else you want me to tell him? His hamster died? His mom’s being eaten alive by flesh-eating bacteria?”

He rolls his eyes in something that looks like indulgent amusement. “Forget the hamster,” he says, “but tell him I took his favorite pair of sweatpants, and he won’t get them back unless he comes to Pittsburgh and strips them off me.”

“Fair enough,” I say. 

He puts on his jacket and opens the door, but before he leaves, I go over to him and give him a hug. I’ve known that dark place at the end of a long fall, and I can tell he's near his own.

“Drive safely, Heathcliff,” I say. I hand him one of my business cards. “Call me when you get home.”

He nods, and then he's gone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

You know your love life’s in a sorry state when your roommate’s _mom_ has a way hotter boyfriend than you do – or ever did. But I have my revenge when I realize I know Tucker from college. Everyone looks awkward when I announce he’d been my dorm’s R.A. when I was a freshman.

“Great,” Justin says. “Just great.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t freak out, Sunshine, I’m seven years older than you. Which means Tucker’s eleven years older than you – practically a fossil. Plus, your mom’s a cougar, while mine is a water buffalo with bunions. Both are female mammals, but that’s where the similarity ends. Be proud.”

Jennifer Taylor laughs, but Justin glares at me. It clearly belatedly dawned on him that Tucker is younger than Heathcliff. I decide not to make a joke about it. It would be like kicking a puppy in the balls.

Later, when Justin and Tucker leave to buy groceries, or go to some super-secret bat cave to get another infusion of hotness, I make Jennifer a cup of tea and sit down in the plastic hand chair. I would’ve sat down beside her on the couch except Pooka and Sam’s cat, which I was taking care of while they were on their annual yoga retreat, had peed on the other cushion. Multiple times. By the end of the week, even Justin had wanted it gone. The thing had single-pawedly burst a fantasy bubble he must’ve had about the joys of owning a pet.

“Wanna get one of our own?” I’d asked after Sam cheerfully shoved the cat into its crate and took it down to his new electric car.

“Hell no,” had been his reply. “I’d rather get something that lives in a tank or a cage – like a gerbil or a tarantula or something.”

“We already have spiders and rodents,” I said. “And the other day I think I even saw a Madagascar giant hissing cockroach in the cabinet by the sink.”

“Ew,” he replied. “I’ve heard those things stink.”

“Unlike the fridge and the garbage and the shower mat?”

I must’ve had him because he didn’t have a snappy retort. He’s getting better at matching me snark for snark (he obviously had previous experience with Heathcliff), but he still has a long way to go. I am the Sensei of Snark. All kneel before me.

“I want to thank you for letting Justin stay here,” Jennifer says. “I know I probably shouldn’t have been, but I was worried about him living in New York all alone. I’ve visited the city a few times, and I’ve always found it a bit intimating.”

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over the idea,” I reply. “Justin’s pretty resourceful – and others seem to like him even though he can be withdrawn when he’s in the company of more than four people. My friends all want to adopt him.”

Jennifer makes a face that approximates a wince. “He’s always being ‘adopted,’” she says. “First by our friend Deb, then eventually by Brian, and later Brian’s friends – even the friend who’d started out terribly jealous of Justin’s relationship with Brian. He needs to build equitable relationships with his own peers and not just continue to be indulged and spoiled by older people.”

I nod, wondering if I counted as one of those “older people” who’d adopted her adorable son. Shit. I probably was, but I didn’t think I should admit it to her.

“What is it about Heathcliff . . . I mean Brian?” I ask to change the subject. “He’s only been here a few times, and from what I can tell he’s some kind of bizarre shape-shifting ridiculously-hot succubus. Beyond the hotness, I can’t say I see the appeal, but from what Justin implies when he talks about him, everyone seems to fall all over themselves to cater to his whims.”

“That may’ve been the case a couple years ago, but it’s not the case anymore,” Jennifer says. She dunks her teabag and then puts it on the intestine-pink plate my grandmother gave me as a housewarming gift. “He’s been knocked down several pegs since I first met him. Everyone, even his best friend, calls him on his shit now, and you can see they take a certain amount of glee from it, which no one could really blame them for. Karma, I suppose. He’s reaping what he sowed, but he’s too insecure to take it like a normal person. But then again, he’s anything but a normal person.”

I take a bite of my two-dollars-off day-old muffin and try to chew it gracefully, but it’s like trying to chew on the bark of a dead gum tree. Improbably sticky and dry at the same time. Must be because of the fact that it’s 99 percent preservatives and only one percent ingredients that weren’t cooked up over a Bunsen burner and distributed by Chem Co.

“Want one?” I say, trying heroically to swallow the damn thing without the assistance of Vaseline.

“No thanks,” she says, smiling that polite smile well-bred WASPs smile when they find themselves being offered something they’d rather die than eat. “Just be patient. Brian will at some point reveal his deeply buried heart of gold. You’ll see. Justin has always been able to coax it out.”

“That’s fine,” I reply. “Just so long as his heart of gold doesn’t explode and pepper me with shrapnel.”

I was being silly, but she doesn’t seem to realize it. “Why do you say that?” she asks warily.

I shrug uncomfortably. It was bad enough telling Justin about Heathcliff’s drunken midnight visit the week before. He’d gotten really upset. I didn’t relish the idea of having to tell another person. Plus, I dislike tattling on dysfunctional people. It’s very pot/kettle. Kind of like a wildebeest mocking a llama’s dingle berries.

“Heath . . . uhm . . . Brian, I mean, seems a little unstable and even a tad paranoid. He showed up looking for Justin, who wasn’t home, and had a mini meltdown on the couch. When he left, he said stuff that made me think he was either going to break up with Justin or commit hari-kari or both.”

Jennifer sighs. “I knew this would happen when they broke the engagement. Why couldn’t they just have gone ahead with the damn wedding? Brian scorns the idea of marriage, but if he was in one, I think he’d feel less fatalistic and insecure. I even told him that, but he started talking about not wanting to hold Justin back as though marriage was nothing more than a short leash and not a haven. I can’t tell if he’s being a martyr or is just unimaginative. Given his success in his chosen field, it seems unlikely it’s the latter. Or maybe he dislikes himself so much that he doesn’t think he deserves Justin, and that Justin will figure that out someday and bolt. I tried to assure him that Justin has always known he’s an asshole and stuck around (for the most part) anyway, but that didn’t seem to cheer him up.”

I snort. “Can’t imagine why. Being called an asshole always makes my day.”

“I didn’t actually use the word ‘asshole’, but I think I managed to get my point across all the same.”

Ah, the joys of a good thesaurus.

I’m about to ask (reluctantly) if I should try to mediate between them or, at the very least, tell Daphne to pry herself out of her boyfriend’s navel and get here pronto, but the boys returned and ended the conversation. Jennifer left before there was enough privacy to continue it. Btw, privacy in the East Village is like a sparkly vampire. In other words, completely fabricated by a Mormon somewhere in butt-fuck Utah who has a hard time publishing a book without cringe-inducing typos. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

 

It strikes me as Not A Good Idea when Justin brings home the same dark-haired, hazel-eyed, devastatingly handsome trick thirteen times in three weeks. Not that I mind the guy (Matt – Justin actually asked his name which must be a sure sign of gay love). In addition to being gorgeous, he likes to make Justin breakfast in bed and is sweet enough to leave some for me. Plus, he likes visiting galleries, knows how to do a close shave (unlike most guys in the East Village), and can sing show tunes in perfect pitch.

After Matt leaves on the thirteenth morning and Justin emerges from his bedroom looking both well fucked and well fed, I pour him a cup of coffee, sit down on the couch and point at the hand chair with an unmistakable “sit the fuck down” face. Justin grudgingly complies. Clearly he recognizes that he’s about to get a lecture and that all resistance is futile.

“Don’t think I’m different from every other liberal arts college grad on the face of the planet,” I say. “We’ve all taken Psych 101, hoping we’d get to read about serial killers and people with multiple personalities – which, btw, was disappointingly not the case. Anyway, I digress. The reason why I’m relaying the halcyon days of my youth is that it seems to me, even with my superficial experience based on little more than my two inpatient stays at the Bronx Psychiatric Center, that you may, just possibly, be subconsciously looking for a sane substitute for Heathcliff.”

Justin looks appalled . . . and more than slightly alarmed. “What do you mean? Matt doesn’t look anything like Brian.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Btw, denial is not a river in Egypt.”

“That’s really stale,” he says. “Even my little sister uses it.”

Touché. The kid’s capable of floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. It’s one of the things that endears him to me, and I doubt very much he learned it from Heathcliff who slinks like a panther and punches you in the head like an inebriated Saturday night third-generation Irish Hell’s Kitchen pub-prowler after Ireland loses a World Cup qualifying match. 

But this is no time for elaborate bull’s-eye-accurate analogies.

“Seriously?” I say. “Matt doesn’t remind you of Heathcliff in _any_ way? Dude works in advertising and rocks his Gucci loafers.”

Justin shrugs guiltily. “At least I’m consistent,” he replies.

I sigh. “I said I wouldn’t intervene in the train wreck that is your and Heathcliff’s relationship, but I must hereto forth ban from these premises Matt and all other Heathcliff doppelgangers, despite their good influence on you and their abilities to interact functionally with the rest of the world.” 

“You can’t do that,” he says, defiantly crossing his arms over his chest. “I pay half the rent.”

“Yes, and I haven’t kicked you out yet, but I’m afraid I’ll have to start charging you an exorbitant damage deposit if Matt ends up spending the night here one more time. Maybe Heathcliff is cool with you having sex with strangers (although even that is debatable), but I’m willing to bet he won’t be so cool with you having sex with someone who, for all intents and purposes, is a boyfriend. Matt looks and quacks like a duck, Sunshine.”

“Matt is _not_ a boyfriend,” he says angrily. “He’s just a friend . . .”

“A ‘friend’ you just happened to have met at Cocks ‘N’ Cocktails? A ‘friend’ who fucks you into your mattress every other night? ”

Justin blushes furiously. He’s smart enough to know when he’s been outmaneuvered. “Well, he _will_ be just a friend when we get the sexual tension out of our systems.”

“And how long did that take for you and Heathcliff – I’m doubting it was just a couple weeks.”

He looks indignant. “Brian and I still have _plenty_ of sexual tension. I can feel my pulse in my asshole when he enters the room.”

“Wow,” I reply. “TMI.”

“It’s your fault I had to mention it.” 

“I’ve already had the pleasure of hearing you on the toilet, I really think that’s sufficient knowledge regarding your asshole.”

“And I haven’t heard _you_? The bathroom may as well have a screen door for the amount of privacy it provides.”

“True fact.” I say nodding. “But it’s still better than the last apartment I lived in. There was nothing but curtains of hippy beads separating my and my three roommates’ personal space. You really jumped the queue when it comes to the hierarchy of New York City living quarters. You even managed to avoid a month in one of the Bowry’s boarding houses. Thanks to moi, I might add.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “Thank you. But, honestly, Matt and I just share a few interests . . .”

“A fondness for cock and nauseating domesticity?”

“No, stuff like visiting art galleries and going to movies and eating in restaurants instead of ordering take-out.”

“Ah, I see. A new and improved version of Heathcliff. He’s going to love that.”

“He doesn’t have to find out,” Justin says pleadingly. “This little fling with Matt means nothing. Brian’s the only man I love, the only man I want to share my life with.”

“Obviously,” I say. “Which is why you’re living here with me and not in your Wuthering Heights with Heathcliff.”

“Who told you about the house?” he asks angrily. “It’s no one’s business except mine and Brian’s.”

“Your mom. She had a picture in her wallet. Never underestimate a mother’s compulsion to show off her son’s accomplishments.”

He shakes his head ruefully – whether at me or his mom or Heathcliff or all of the above, I don’t know. “The fact Brian bought a house for me is hardly an ‘accomplishment.’ It was just another thing he did for me. Other than thanking him, I had no other part in the whole thing.”

“Surely you must’ve done at least _something_ for him over the years. You have a Mississippi River-sized streak of generosity. I can’t imagine that you haven’t contributed anything – other than your presence and your pulsing asshole – to Heathcliff’s life.”

“You’re so crass sometimes,” he says. “I’m going to the bank and then I have to make dinner. Matt’s coming over.”

“Good thing you’re going to the bank,” I reply, “‘cause you’ll need to withdraw the extra money you’re going to pay me in anticipation of Heathcliff’s apartment-trashing meltdown.”

He just closes his eyes and shakes his head irritably. “See you later,” he says, and then leaves.

Great. I’ve always wanted to be a Cassandra. 

 

The phone rings at three a.m. just like the defense secretary’s hypothetical call to Hilary Clinton. I answer it and am momentarily relieved to realize Vladimir Putin hasn’t launched a fuck ton of nuclear missiles at us. The relief wears off when I hear the urgent whisper of an unknown man.

“Is Justin there?” he hisses.

No, of course he isn’t. Justin seems to have a sixth sense about things like this and stays somewhere else for the night . . . somewhere else. Please, God, let it not be Matt’s place. I have a distinct feeling that nothing good is going to come of this odd unexpected call.

“No, sorry,” I reply. “Try again tomorrow. ‘Nighty-night . . .”

“Look, please, don’t hang up! I know you don’t know me, but I need help.”

I sigh. “Let me guess. You’re a friend of Heathcliff and you’re calling because Heathcliff’s on a ledge – that or taken an innocent passer-by hostage.”

There’s a momentary silence on the other end.

“Who’s Heathcliff?”

“Hello,” I say. “Charlotte Bronte? _Wuthering Heights_? Handsome brooding nutcase? Any of these things strike a bell?”

“No,” the voice says. “I don’t have even the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

I sigh again and try not to succumb to despair over the sorry state of the nation’s educational institutions and the illiterate masses they spew forth. “Brian,” I say. “I’m talking about Brian.”

A light bulb must’ve turned on above the caller’s depressingly empty head because he says: “He’s here and he’s drunk and he’s on my husband’s computer reading dictionary.com in search of the right words to use in the email he’s about to send to Justin!”

That does not sound good. I momentarily curse the internet and the accessibility to literacy it’s engendered. When you’re a writer, you know that words can easily be turned into roadside bombs capable of slaughtering or maiming their intended targets. And I had a distinct feeling that Justin was going check his email at some point and be turned into nothing but a red haze right in front of my eyes.

“Well, look on the bright side,” I say. “Metaphorical death is always better than the real thing.”

More silence then: “What the hell are you talking about? We don’t have all the time in the world here!”

“And I’m supposed to help you how? I’m assuming you’re calling from Pittsburgh, and last I knew Apparation is only possible in the Harry Potter books.”

Surely, he’s read Harry Potter? _Everybody’s_ read Harry Potter. You’re a _very_ recently defrosted caveman if you haven’t heard of Harry Potter.

“Will you please stop talking gibberish! Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? Brian’s going to break up with Justin!”

“And that’s by objective definition a bad thing?”

“Are you _crazy_? Of course it’s a bad thing!”

“Maybe for Heathcliff,” I say. “But maybe not for Justin. I’ve lived with him for almost a year. He’s a decent kid. Heathcliff is bad news, and it seems to me, he’s always been.”

“I don’t give a shit about Justin! Brian’s my best friend! He’s already unhappy . . .”

“. . . several crayons short of a full crayon box is more like it . . .”

“He’s miserable. He’s drinking too much. I’m worried about him! He’s always disappearing to that stupid house!”

Ah ha! The whole melodrama gets more and more like _Wuthering Heights_ all the time. It’s actually starting to freak me out.

“How is he ‘disappearing’ when you know where he goes?”

“WHERE THE HELL IS JUSTIN?”

I’m always impressed by people who can whisper in caps.

“I honestly don’t know, and I’d really rather not guess without any evidence. I’m not a shit-stirrer. I hate stirred shit. It may look like chocolate cake batter, but it’s not.”

“He knows. He fucking knows. It’s like Ethan all over again except worse.”

Ah, Ethan. Ethan Gold. The guy whose phone calls Justin refuses to take. Clearly an ex.

“He’s cheated on Brian before, and he’s doing it again.”

“First of all, how can you cheat on someone when you agree that both of you can fuck around, and how do you even know he knows?”

“Because the guy Justin's cheating with answered Justin’s cell and told Brian that Justin had been painting all day and needed his rest. Then he told Brian to call back in the morning.”

Matt. Fuck.

“Look,” I say. “I really don’t want to get involved . . .”

“And you think _I_ do? I already have my hands full with a family and a business. I can’t be babysitting Brian like I used to. The guy who answered Justin’s phone was definitely _not_ a trick, even my husband didn’t think Brian was being paranoid when he showed up here and told us about it, and my husband is really levelheaded.”

Thank god _someone_ is.

“I really don’t know what I can do,” I say. “Justin hasn’t been home since Thursday . . .”

“Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god . . . Brian’s going to _freak_ if he finds out. Is the little fucker _living_ with someone? Jesus Christ! Brian finally does what Justin said he wanted, and the little prick repays him like _this_?!”

“Whoa there, Vlad,” I say. “Put your hands up and back away from the launch pad. Innocent people don’t need to die . . .”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

Wow! Impressive! This guy can really rock the whispered caps.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Listen, just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you whether or not I’m willing to do it.”

“I . . . shit, I don’t know. I don’t know what you _can_ do.”

We’ve been talking for fifteen minutes and all he has for ideas is none at all.

“Let me talk to Heathcliff . . . I mean Brian. Probably you calling Justin a ‘little shit’ isn’t helping the situation.”

“But he _is_ a little shit . . .”

“Let’s not argue over Sunshine’s shittiness. Get Heathcliff on the phone.”

I hear the sound of a cell phone being put down on something and then voices speaking unintelligible words in the background. I also hear a baby crying.

This sucks.

 

I talked to Heathcliff, and I was completely honest with him. (I have a feeling Heathcliff can spot a lie at a hundred paces given what Justin’s told me about his father.) I told him about Matt and how often Justin’s been seeing him. I told him that I talked to Justin about it and that Justin had said it was nothing and that he only loves Heathcliff, and that he just needed to get this Matt guy out of his system. Heathcliff didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t lose his shit at me, the poor, hapless messenger. He didn’t start crying and wailing like a pre-teen girl who's just found out Justin Bieber is dating again after his break up with Selena Gomez. All he did was calmly agree with me that he should stay where he was until he sobered up. I was especially adamant that he not drive here. He agreed he wouldn’t. I also told him to stop scaring the fucking baby. All he did in response was to quietly hang up on me.

And then he must’ve pressed “send” because Justin throws the laptop his mom bought him for his birthday at the wall when he opens his inbox.

“You told him!” he shouts at me. “Why the _fuck_ did you tell him?!”

He kicks the hand chair over, but I'm not worried that it'll break. The hideous thing was probably acquired by a former tenant back in the sixties and has survived God only knows how many succeeding renters. Tellingly, none of them decided to take it with them when they moved.

“This thing with Matt is _nothing_! Brian's probably thinking it’s Ethan all over again – no, fuck ‘probably,’ he _is_ thinking it’s Ethan all over again! You don’t know shit, Moira! You weren’t there! You don’t know what I fucking did to him! What a fucking asshole I was!”

I’m not angry. I’d considered the possibility that Heathcliff might still send the email despite our conversation, and I knew that if he did that Justin was going to go all Norman Bates on me. I sit calmly and meet his eyes.

“Jesus! How did he even find out?”

“Matt answered his call on your cell while you were asleep and apparently sounded like your spouse of twenty years. I didn’t tell him. He’d already figured it out for himself. He just didn’t know the whole story . . .”

“Which you were happy to give to him.”

“‘Happy’ is definitely not the word I’d used to describe the experience. But don’t worry, I told him you were only going to be more-than-friends with Matt until you’d gotten him out of your system.”

He leans against the wall and sinks down to the floor, his head in his hands. “I had no idea you hate me so much,” he says.

That hurt. Despite the years-worth of walls I’ve built around every part of my life only letting the people with passports through the gates, I’d let Justin become important and special to me. So his words hurt. A lot.

“I don’t hate you,” I say, stripping my voice of snark. “I really don’t. I don’t like to see you hurt, and I certainly don’t relish the idea of contributing to your unhappiness. But honestly, baby, this is the bed you made. Neither I nor anyone else made it for you. But don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re not responsible for how Brian responds to the knowledge. That’s his problem. Yes, you did have the obligation to tell him – especially since you suspected how it might affect him – but it’s not like you’re married to him . . .”

Bad choice of words. Justin starts to cry. I haven’t taken a shower since yesterday morning, and my foot tastes like shit.

“But I _should_ be,” he chokes. “It’s because of me that we aren’t married – that we aren’t even _living_ together. I just had to let everyone convince me that I’d end up regretting it if I didn’t move to New York, that I’d be ruining my future if I stayed in Pittsburgh with Brian. I even let _him_ convince me!” He starts crying again. “You have no idea how _hard_ I’ve been working to keep us together! I email him, I call him, I send him stupid little things I find that remind me of him – of us. I tell him that I love him over and over and again and again, but it’s never enough to overcome this stupid idea that he has that I’d be better off without him! He’s a fucking asshole not to listen to me, not to trust me. When you don’t have trust in someone than everything that person does will always feel like a betrayal. Yes, okay, I like Matt. He’s good looking and fun to hang out with, but he’s not _Brian_! If Brian could just fucking trust me, he’d know that Matt isn’t even the remotest of threats to his place in my life.”

This is that point in a conversation with a friend that I usually say: “Fuck him if he can’t trust you! You’ve done everything you could to make him feel safe, so it’s _his_ problem if he can’t, _his_ hang-up, not yours.” But this time I don’t. Somehow I’ve come to identify – maybe even empathize – with Brian. He reminds me of many people I’ve known over the years . . . he even reminds me of myself before I got my shit in a pile. You may think a person’s a fucking moron if he walks out in the street without looking both ways, but you never enjoy the carnage that results. And I haven’t enjoyed watching Justin and Brian tear each other – and themselves – apart to keep a love on life support when nature intended for it to die.

That said, I’m not enough of an a-hole to tell Justin I did him a favor, and that he’ll thank me for it someday. I believe proof of such platitudes should be a defense for murder. No matter how gory and slow the victim’s death.

He lifts his head and looks at me defeatedly. I want to hug him and assure him that everything will be okay, but who am I to try to comfort him? I don’t know him well enough. I haven’t helped him survive other hardships, other losses. I don’t know his heart or even the necessary part of it. Who does? Matt perhaps? I reject the thought as soon as it forms in my brain. Other than fucking him, I’m willing to bet Justin hasn’t revealed the raw, defenseless chambers in his heart that I’m sure he possesses – that _everyone_ possesses. I scour my sparse knowledge about Justin trying to think of someone I can call. His mom? No. His mom’s awesome, but she’ll be too invested to see things clearly – especially since she’s made it more or less apparent that she thinks Justin should’ve stayed. I’m not at all convinced that’s true. His father? Justin has never talked about his father, but that’s probably solid evidence that dad’s not in his life enough to be of help to his son. That Debbie woman he’s mentioned and whose picture he has on the wall beside his mom’s? I don’t know her well enough to have an opinion as to her suitability to comfort Justin . . . and then I remember. I smack my forehead with a Homer Simpson “Doh!” Of course I know the person Justin needs right now!

I tell him I’m going outside for a smoke, sit down on the front steps, pull my cell phone out of my coat pocket and dial Daphne’s number.


	3. Chapter 3

Daphne is a normal person, and when I say that, it’s not because I’m being an asshole. I mean she’s normal in a good way. In fact, I often use her as my ambassador to normalcy when I periodically wander off the reservation and need to return. The word I always use when describing her to my New York friends is “unflappable.” They usually just look at me uncomprehendingly. Unflappability is not a common trait in the East Village, especially when your friends are all writers, artists, musicians, non-profit lawyers and Roomba instructors. 

“Let’s play ‘Shake the Bottle,’” she says. We’re waiting for Justin to return from his job at the coffee shop, and the minutes feel like fucking hours.

“Okay,” I say. She’s good at distracting me.

She gets up from the couch and goes to the bathroom. I hear her open the medicine cabinet, and then I hear her shake a pill bottle.

“Lamictal,” I say without even having to pause to think. “Come on, that’s too easy. Give me something harder. There’s a new prescription somewhere in there. Check behind the Monistat.”

“Just warming you up. Even Olympian sprinters need to stretch before they go jogging.” She shakes another bottle.

“Zoloft,” I say. “That wasn’t even a stretch; it was a give-away.”

She shakes another bottle. “Lithium,” I reply.

“What dosage?”

Whoa, a double-my-winnings question!

“1,000 mg?”

She makes the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong, it’s 900. Congratulations on going down.”

I smile proudly. “I’ve been feeling pretty alright lately . . . well, at least until the whole Heathcliff thing went pear shaped.”

“You can’t let that affect you. You’re doing so well. You shouldn’t be involved. It’s like putting your hand into a wood chipper. Believe me. I’ve had years of experience.” She shakes another bottle. 

“Xanax. Which is why you’re here,” I say. “Please tell me you can stay for a few days, _please_. That should be enough time to apply a tourniquet and move the refugees into Red Cross tents.”

“I can stay until Tuesday or maybe Thursday depending on Derek’s schedule,” she replies. She shakes another bottle.

“Klonopin,” I say. “And it sounds like I need a refill . . .”

We’re interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. I quickly get up to make coffee, and Daphne returns to the living room.

All he says is, “Daph!” and runs straight into her arms. She holds him close, stroking his hair. Suddenly, I feel lonely and jealous of both of them – him because he has her, and her because she has him. Too bad he isn’t straight. They’d have made a great couple.

“It’s over. He really means it this time.” Justin says, his voice is muffled. They haven’t released each other yet. It occurs to me that this is how he and Heathcliff should’ve greeted each other when Heathcliff visited him. Instead they’d circled warily like two wolves with their ears pricked, sniffing for danger, at least until they went to Justin’s room and fucked for the next three hours; after that they’d both seemed to relax, and it would become clear they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. 

“He always says that,” she says soothingly. “This is nothing new. You know how he gets. He senses he’s going to get hurt and makes a preemptive strike . . .”

“It’s different this time,” Justin replies. “He wasn’t a shithead.”

“Can you show me the email or did you break your computer?”

He steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking momentarily sheepish. “I did break the computer,” he says, “but it doesn’t matter. It’s not like his email was long or complicated. All it said was that he loves me and will always love me and that he . . . that he wants me to be happy.” He’s clearly struggling to hold back tears.

I frown. Heathcliff needed dictionary.com for that? It doesn’t sound like a Dear John letter to me. It sounds like a reaffirmation of devotion. I’m about to say so when Daphne says “oh no, Justin” and pulls him close for another hug. Call me crazy . . . no, wait, that won’t work . . . call me irrational, but it seems strange to me that for Justin and Heathcliff fighting tooth and nail is a sign that all is well and good in their world, while a heartfelt love note is the equivalent of a “fuck off” and a slammed door. It was too dysfunctional to grasp, even for me. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Daphne says. “I know it’s hard. You’ve got to hold on, tighter than ever . . .”

“Or let go,” I say, returning to the living room with two mugs of coffee. They both look at me as though I’d asked them to take me to their leader.

“Moira,” Daphne says gently but warningly. “You asked me to come here so I could help . . .”

I ignore her tone and his hunched shoulders. “I’m sorry,” I say, “go ahead and insult me by calling me a realist, but I don’t think my advice is unreasonable. Nothing and no one has managed to convince me that the Justin and Heathcliff Show shouldn’t jump the shark and have its farewell finale.” 

I sit down in the hand chair and point at the couch. If you’ve found this diary and are reading it, please don’t worry about the cat piss; I covered the cushions with one of my grandmother’s ratty maroon and pink afghans. It goes smashingly with the brown and yellow shag carpet, and the light of the lava lamp flatters its hues. I was surprised that an artist like Justin didn’t find the tableau inspirational.

“The only thing that inspires me about it,” he’d said, “is the prospect of incinerating it.”

“And destroy a cherished heirloom? How hardhearted of you!”

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, “that it’s a cherished heirloom that is, not that I said I want to light it on fire.”

“You sound like Heathcliff,” I’d grumbled.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said with a grin. “I’ve rubbed off on him too. If you think he’s bad now, you should’ve seen him five years ago.”

I was appalled by his remark, but, alas, not surprised.

“What a lovely afghan,” Daphne says, sitting down on the couch and accepting the mug I hand her.

“Hey, no need to get bitchy,” I reply. I’m not being defensive; it’s merely a known fact that when someone compliments the afghan it means they’re pissed off at me about something.

Daphne sighs sadly. “Letting go of Heathcliff . . . shit, now you’ve got me calling him Heathcliff too, is not an option. At least not over something as silly as this Matt thing. Plus, if Brian really reminds you of Heathcliff, then Justin is Cathy . . .”

“Hey!” Justin protests.

“. . . and we all know what happened to them. Cathy dies and haunts Heathcliff to madness, and then after being a complete fucking asshole to everyone around him, Heathcliff chases Cathy’s ghost onto a distant moor where he drops dead and is eaten by weasels.”

“Jesus, _weasels_?” Justin says. “Brian doesn’t like rodents – he doesn’t even like squirrels.”

“Weasels aren’t rodents,” I say. 

“Yeah, but they’re like ferrets,” Justin says. “One of my friends from school had one. They slink around and hide cocktail wieners in unlikely places. Brian would hate that.”

Daphne beams at me. “Not bad,” she says. “You managed to distract him from his Brian-angst even if only for a couple seconds. It’s taken me years to develop that skill.” She turns her attention back to the broken man beside her. He looks like Humpty Dumpty after he’d had his egg ass kicked off that wall. “Justin, we have to come up with a plan. First things first, you have to break up with Matt . . .”

“I don’t have to ‘break up with Matt.’ He’s _not_ my boyfriend!”

“Well, whatever kind of gay relational arrangement you have with him is clearly more than Brian can handle.”

“Me asking a trick his name is too much for Brian to handle.”

“And you want to look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t know that?”

“What the hell,” I interject. “Dude dips his Tag A into untold numbers of Slot Bs, and he freaks when Justin does the same?”

“Brian doesn’t mind that – in fact, he encourages Justin to hook up with guys whenever he wants . . .”

I almost challenge the factual nature of that assertion but decide I’d just end up making everything more complicated than it already is.

“. . . Justin just can’t ask for names, phone numbers or see the guys again.”

“Technically I shouldn’t even kiss them on the mouth,” Justin says.

Holy shit. _Really_?

“Ever hear of narcissistic personal disorder?” I ask. “Look it up; it’s in the Diagnostic Statistical Manual. One of the main traits is being a controlling asshole.”

“It wasn’t Brian’s idea,” Justin says. “It was mine.”

Oh. That shines a different light on things.

“So you break your own rules with impunity? Does he?”

Justin shrugs. “Probably not,” he says guilty. “But then again he usually doesn’t like his tricks, so it’s not a hardship for him. I wouldn’t bring home someone I didn’t like.”

Phew! That was close. For a moment there I was actually sympathizing with Heathcliff.

“He doesn’t like the people in whose orifices he stuffs his dick.”

“Not really,” Justin replies. “He doesn’t like people he doesn’t know, but then again he doesn’t _dislike_ people he doesn’t know either. He never tries to get to know his tricks . . .”

“Unless if said trick forces him to,” says Daphne with a fond nudge. Justin smiles and blushes.

“Like I’ve always said, a gem of a gentleman,” I say.

“He is who he is,” Daphne replies, “and, all the same, Justin has always loved him.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Daphne shrugs. “It is what it is. When was the last time you were able to talk yourself out of being in love?”

I wince. Daphne had had to wet vac my guts off the floor when my married professor kicked me to the curb. It took forever and another two prescriptions to get over him.

“Point taken,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least try to let Heathcliff go. Please share with me even one example of what good Heathcliff ever did for Justin.”

“He helped me deal with my post-traumatic stress after being almost killed by a classmate . . .”

Whoa. This is news to me. I feel humbled. Justin never told me about getting bashed. Either he didn’t want to because he was trying to leave it behind him – or he didn’t feel like he knew me well enough to tell me something so momentous. I’m glad I contacted Daphne.

“. . . he paid my art school tuition when my dad basically disowned me . . .”

His dad disowned him? Another thing he never told me even though we’ve been sharing oxygen, dish wear and the same rolls of toilet paper for almost a year.

“. . . he refused to let his friends disown me after I cheated on him. He wasn’t always a saint while I was with Ethan, but he didn’t stop loving me and looking out for me. Same thing when I broke up with him because I was convinced our relationship was doomed. He always put my long term welfare over his own – even when he basically kicked me out the door to come here. He’s always attuned to what he thinks are my opportunities – both career-wise and personally – and has always encouraged me to take advantage of them even at the expense of his own happiness. I know he’d never let me totally crash and burn even though he thinks I should try my best to make it on my own. Because of him I can take risks because he’ll always be there to catch me if I fall off the tightrope. He’d give me anything if he ever became convinced I needed help . . .”

I roll my eyes. Quite the martyr our Heathcliff. “Have you ever considered the possibility that all this ‘help’ and sacrifice isn’t just another way of controlling you, of assuring you’ll always need him?”

“Yes, of course I’ve considered that possibility,” he snaps. “And I’ve rejected it. Brian’s not a martyr; he just needs to protect and help out the people he loves. It’s what assures him he’s human, that he has a heart. Once Ted told him he was a heartless shit, which was why Ted designated him to be the one to make the decision to pull the plug should he ever become incapacitated. Brian told me that Ted’s words had hurt him more than almost anything ever had because he knew that Ted truly meant them – that Ted was being candid and not critical, that he was merely stating what he believed to be an objective fact. Brian was depressed for weeks after their conversation, although, of course, no one knew. Brian’s really good at camouflaging his feelings with blasé bullshit and feigned cruelty. That’s why your Heathcliff thing is complete bullshit. Heathcliff didn’t feign his cruelty, he meant it. Brian’s just playing the role he invented a long time ago to protect himself from pain and regret. Brian is anything but cruel. You can’t begin to imagine the lengths he’s gone to to help his friends. If he has a limited capacity to be just as caring to strangers and thus blows off people he doesn’t know, it’s not because he’s an asshole. But if you ask me, I think his expertise at fucking is a form of generosity; he shares his body and gives people pleasure . . .”

“I see,” I say. “Instead of donating to organizations that provide reconstructive surgery to children with harelips in impoverished countries, he deigns to pick up some random guy and fuck him. A real philanthropist.”

Justin is furious at me. I can tell by the way his nostrils flare. He reaches for Daphne’s hand. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

Daphne shakes her head at me like a disappointed mom. “You know what?” she says. “You remind me a lot of him. Are you sure you and Brian aren’t siblings separated at birth? More than half the things that come out of your mouth are bullshit, no matter how funny they may be. But I know you and so do your friends, and we forgive you because we know that, deep down, you’re one of the kindest, most empathetic people we know. The same goes for Brian.”

I nod unsure whether she just complimented or chastised me. Probably both.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Justin, but the gaze he fixes on me is as cold as a baboon’s bare ass in Antarctica.

“Just leave,” he says.

I do.

 

I must be even more insane than my shrink thinks because that night, after Justin and Daphne leave to go have dinner at that new Mongolian restaurant, I find the number for Heathcliff’s club and call him. He’s not thrilled to hear from me.

“What do you want?” he says, preemptively cutting off any greetings I might’ve conveyed, which annoys the fuck out of me.

“You’re an asshole,” I say.

I hear him snort. “That’s what I like,” he says. “People with a keen eye for the obvious. They’re surprisingly rare. Now tell me what you want because I also like people who don’t waste my time.”

Yes, indeed, he is a bona fide asshole, but regretfully I respect him for it.

“I want you to text Justin and tell him you’re going to come here and kick his twinky butt.”

There’s silence on his end of the line save for the distant sound of music and the nearer sound of guys fucking each other.

“Why would I want to do that?” he asks. “I’m not mad at him. I care for him, and I want him to be happy, and I wanted to make sure he knows that and never forgets it.”

“He thinks you broke up with him.”

“He’s right.”

“What a weird passive aggressive way to break up with someone you claim to love.”

If he were here, I know that my remark would’ve made him go all Heathcliff on me. Fortunately, he’s not here.

“I was _not_ being passive-aggressive,” he says.

“Oh, yes you were,” I reply evenly. “But I don’t necessarily mean that’s a bad thing. It’s certainly better than merely aggressive. I’ve known too many friends who’ve had the shit beaten out of them by their spouses and lovers when they found out they’d been cheated on.”

“He didn’t cheat on me. He pursued his happiness. He owes me nothing.”

Spare me, good Lord.

“Well, that’s not what he thinks . . .”

“That’s because he’s a twat. All he owes me is his happiness. That’s it.”

“Then you should be happy that he’s happy,” I reply. “But you’re not, are you? You’re hurt.”

“No, I’m not,” he says calmly. “I knew this would happen eventually. I prepared myself for it.”

“Yeah, by leaving his emails unanswered and avoiding his calls and disappearing to Wuthering Heights with no warning.”

“Wuthering heights?”

“Jesus, don’t tell me that you, too, are illiterate. I mean that silly big house in the country you bought for him.”

“I know what _Wuthering Heights_ is, and I know you think I’m like that psychopath Heathcliff. I’m not psycho; I just happen to have different perspectives than other people. You may think I’m being cruel to try to keep Justin at a distance, but I’m not. I’m trying to pry his little fingers from my ankle and force him to prove to himself how fucking amazing he is and that he’d be better off if he stops worrying about me. I’m not a delicate daisy. I’ve gone through worse things in my life and survived.”

“Bullshit you have. You’re not surviving, you’re existing.”

“Same thing." 

“Meds help,” is all I can think to say.

He snorts again. “Don’t worry, I have plenty of meds. Ecstasy, booze, valium, blow jobs and buttfucking. No prescriptions necessary.”

“Wow,” I say. “You’re good at this. A real fucking champ. I’m impressed. Are your friends stupid enough to think you’re not full of shit?”

“Pretty much,” he says. “Except for Deb . . . and Justin, of course, but that’s only because Deb has known me since even before I knew myself, and I let Justin in on the secret.”

“I haven’t known him for long, but I suspect he figured it out for himself.”

Another silence. “Probably,” he says after a while.

“Look,” I say. “I don’t have all night to snark duel with you, skillful though you may be. I’m calling because Justin’s miserable . . .”

“. . . that’ll only last for a few weeks. We’ve been apart before, and he’s done just fine; in fact he’s thrived. He doesn’t need – or want – me as much as he thinks he does.”

I sigh. I’m being outmaneuvered. “What can I do to convince you that you’re going to ruin his life if you break up with him?”

Touché. Bullet through the bull’s eye. Answer that, you dickhead.

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nothing. In fact, I should’ve done this a long time ago. I’ve made things more complicated than they needed to be. I . . . Well, I’m not someone who usually pulls Band-Aids off slowly.”

“Come on, give the poor kid a break,” I say. “I promise if you get back together with him I’ll make regular offerings of frankincense and burnt goat meat.”

He laughs. He actually fucking laughs. I try not to beam. “Well done,” he concedes gracefully. “But no deal. I’m giving the ‘poor boy,’ a ‘break’ by ending this farce of a relationship. Now go away. You’ve annoyed me so much that I need another blow job before I go home.”

He hangs up on me. Bastard. That’s the second time he’s done that.

 

Matt calls the land line. Unfortunately, Justin’s at one of his shitty part-time jobs and Daphne’s taking a nap.

“I’m sorry to bug you,” he says, “but I need to know if Justin’s there. He’s not answering my calls. I don’t know what it was, but it seems I’ve done something wrong, and I want to know what it is.”

I sigh. Matt’s a decent guy. For a moment, I feel pissed off at Justin for dragging the dude into his personal shit storm without even the courtesy of offering him an umbrella and galoshes.

“He’s not here,” I say.

“Well, do you know what it was that I did?”

I sigh again. “I don’t do pro bono mediation.”

“Then I’ll pay you.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. He’s now officially on my list, behind Pooka and Sam, of course, of people who take even the inanest things I say seriously.

“My point is that I don’t want to get involved. But don’t worry; I’ll kick Justin’s ass when he gets home until he calls you. I haven’t gotten rid of my Doc Martens and their soles still leave marks.”

I almost say good-bye when an arguably brilliant plan pops into my head.

“Hey, wait, I have an idea,” I say. “I’m not going to play pin the tail on the asshole about Justin’s problem or lack thereof, but there’s one thing I do know for sure, and that is that Justin thinks you’re fucking gorgeous. Why not get all gussy-upped in your Prada, and I’ll come to your place and take a photo that you can just happen to accidently send him.”

It sounds dumb and probably stalkerish, but I don’t care. You can cut the drama in the apartment with a weed whacker, and I’m more than sick of it. “Oh, and by the way, there’s this guy in Pittsburgh whom Justin told me he used to have a crush on. I’ll send you the link to the website for his company. There’s a picture of him on it. I bet if you got your hair cut like his, it’ll be the frosting on Justin’s ‘I’m fucking crazy if I ditch this guy’ cake.”

“I don’t know,” Matt says, sounding skeptical and possibly even weirded-out. “This all sounds kind of creepy.”

“That’s because it is,” I reply. “But what’re your options? Flowers and chocolates? Justin’s told me he’d been there and done that and found it less than convincing. Come on, why can’t this work? And what will you lose by trying? If nothing else, you can use the photo on Grindr to entice new boyfriends if Justin really does mean to dump your ass. Win-win, right?”

He’s doesn’t answer for a long time, but I see that as a good thing. It shows that he’s at least considering my bat-shit idea.

“Send me the link,” he finally says.

I grin. After we hang up, I fetch a pint of Haagen Dazs from the freezer. 

 

“Oh my God!” Daphne says when I show her the picture. “Holy shit! If he saw this, even Justin would have to admit Matt looks just like Brian.”

“Like the brooding expression? That was my idea. That and the bottle of Beam and half-empty glass I put on the counter beside him.”

Daphne shudders. “It’s kind of creepy.”

“Isn’t it?” I say, beaming. “I’m quite proud of the fact. I tried to make it as creepy as possible.”

“You succeeded admirably. So, now what? What’s the next stage of your brilliant plan?”

I sit down on the couch and pull her down to join me. I position us so we’re facing each, put my hands on her thighs and pin her gaze with mine.

“Now,” I say, leaning forward and giving her a scheming smile, “you take that photo home with you back to Pittsburgh.” I nod at the photograph on the coffee table. I expect her to renew her accolades, but instead she starts shaking her head – slowly at first and then with increasing vigor.

“Oh no,” she says. “No, no, no. I see where this is going, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

I frown. “But you were just complimenting my brilliance . . .”

“Yes, but many brilliant people are bat shit, and I’m afraid, sweetie, that includes you. I am not going to show Brian that photo. I don’t know what he’d do, but one thing’s for sure – he’ll think I'm nosing around in things that concern only him and Justin. People who do that sometimes end up on milk cartons. Brian’s a very private person, especially when it comes to Justin. He’ll flip out . . .”

As if on cue, said Justin walks in. He’s over an hour late, and his eyes are red. He smiles weakly at us and goes straight to his bedroom. I raise my eyebrows at Daphne. 

She sighs. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” she says, “but I’m not happy about it.”

“Look, just go see him at work. Hand him an envelope with the photo in it. Say something benign and cryptic like ‘I just thought you might want to see this,' then tell him you’re late for fill-in-the-blank and run like the wind. You can then go into hiding, at least until he and Justin get back together. After that, it’ll all be moot.”

“Remind me again why seeing the photo will bring Justin and Brian back together again? Because that part of your so-called ‘plan’ is a little vague.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask, projecting offense at having my plan alluded to with the dreaded air quotation marks. If she were anyone but Daphne, I would’ve thrown her and her suitcase out the door. Nobody – and I mean _nobody_ – gives me the air quotation marks. “Isn’t it obvious?” I say. “Heathcliff will see that Justin is dating – or whatever – his long lost twin and realize that Justin wants him so so very much that he’s stooped to settling for substitutes. Heathcliff will be both flattered and sympathetic. Then they’ll have one of their marathon fuck sessions, and all will become well and good with the universe. Brilliant, huh?” 

She stands up and goes to the kitchen. “Want some dinner?” she asks. “I bought some ingredients this afternoon.”

I guess that’s her answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually Justin emerges from his bedroom. It must be the smell of meat cooking. Cooking meat calls to men’s inner Neanderthal; they can try to resist, but their wills always crumble. Even Sam breaks down occasionally and eats a burger the size of his electric car after making me swear on Buddha’s belly that I won’t tell Pooka.

“I _am_ going to break up, or whatever all of you want to call it, with Matt but only when I fucking feel like it,” Justin says when I tell him the poor bastard actually stooped to the indignity of calling on the landline because the twat wasn’t answering his cell. “Plus, I’m not going to let Brian make _all_ the decisions. Sometimes he can be really manipulative.”

Daphne’s making something that sizzles really loudly. I lean toward Justin and cup my ear.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sure I didn’t hear you correctly. Did you just call Heathcliff ‘manipulative’?”

He scowls at me. “It’s not like it’s a revelation,” he says. “It’s just that it’s worse than usual this time. He’s managed to really squeeze me between a rock and hard place.”

“Or between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

“I haven’t heard of that,” he grumbles.

“Its origins are nautical in nature.”

“I really don’t give a shit.”

I shrug. I’m actually not in the mood for a serious conversation. After my chat with Daphne, I’d received a call from the magazine I’d pitched a story idea to and was told my proposal had been accepted. The fact that the article would be long and substantive (instead of boilerplate bullshit about how a busy single girl can find love) and the magazine is within the realm of respectable put me in the mood to celebrate, not gaze into the schmoo-encrusted navel of Justin and Heathcliff’s relationship.

“Dinner’s ready,” Daphne says. We set places on the coffee table and sit on the floor to eat. It’s some kind of healthy stir fry, which tastes awesome despite its healthiness.

“Listen,” Daphne says, turning to Justin. “It occurred to me while I was out walking this afternoon that maybe you should email Brian and thank him for setting you free – and phrase it exactly like that to imply that he’s been keeping you captive against your will. You know how much Brian likes to do exactly what he’s been told not to do.”

“That’s just stupid,” Justin replies. “I’d just confirm his suspicions about me not being happy with him and then what?” 

“Suggest he get a personality adjustment before he starts dating again? Borderline personality disorders don’t respond to medication, but sometimes cognitive behavioral therapy can help. Be proactive and send him a couple referrals within his area code.”

“Moira,” Daphne says. “We agreed this was going to be a snark-free evening, remember?”

“Vaguely. I must’ve been high at the time because it’s an Olympian task to contain my snark. Okay then, by all means, continue to ruminate obsessively over the inanity of the situation. I find it slightly more interesting than making toast.” 

Both Daphne and Justin roll their eyes like synchronized jerks. This is the third night in a row that we’ve laboriously picked through Heathcliff’s garbage heap of bullshit for a scrap of something edible. Or even recognizable. It was getting as boring as a meditation retreat in the desert. To my extreme relief, there’s a knock.

Justin leaps up, knocking his bowl off the table.

“God, _please_ let it be Brian,” he says as he shrugs off his last rags of dignity, runs to the door, throws it open, and . . .

. . . Pooka and Sam walk in bearing what must be a dingleberry pie judging by its smell.

“We heard your wonderful friend from Pittsburgh is here,” Sam says cheerfully. “We just had to come by and thank you for taking Moira off our hands that winter back in 2004 when that editor from Simon and Schuster broke up with her.”

Pooka nods sincerely. “You were an angel to do that.”

“So we brought over this homemade pie that we baked with love and gratitude. And don’t worry – it’s egg and glutton-free, and the wild berries were picked by us last summer on our ‘Back to Nature’ retreat.”

Daphne laughs as though they’re endearingly amusing. Traitors. All of them.

“Oh hi there, Justin,” Pooka says. “Aren’t you cute today?”

“Honey, he’s _always_ cute,” Sam says. “Why should today be any different?”

I look at Justin. He isn’t even remotely cute. In fact he resembles a horny toad within a second of shooting blood out of its eyes.

“By the way,” Pooka says, blissfully ignorant of the fact that her organically-grown hemp dress is about to be splattered by toad blood. “We saw your dashing boyfriend this afternoon.”

Justin visibly brightens. “Brian?” he says. “You saw Brian?”

Pooka and Sam give him twin baffled looks. “Who’s Brian?” Sam says.

“We’re talking about Matt,” Pooka explains.

Justin looks both stricken and confused.

“Matt’s not dashing,” he says. “He’s good-looking, but not ‘dashing.’ He doesn’t look anything like Brian at all, and I wish that people would just shut up about it.”

Daphne shoots me a meaningful look. I mouth back that I’d told her so and nobly abstain from doing the thumb-on-nose-finger-wiggling-tongue-sticking-out thing.

“Riiiggghhhttt,” I say to Justin. “He’s only won first place in God’s semi-annual ‘Who’s The Hottest Guy I’ve Ever Created’ contest four years in a row.”

Justin still looks confused.

“It’s alright,” I tell a stunned Daphne. “He hasn’t gone insane; he’s just going through a brief period of ‘You-Have-To-Be-Fucking-Kidding-Us.’ It’ll go away. At least I hope it will.”

“Who’s this ‘Brian’?” Sam asks. “Bring him by for one of our bi-weekly neighborhood potluck dinners.” He looks at Daphne. “Don’t worry. The food’s acceptable for both vegans and practitioners of the macrobiotic diet.”

Daphne tries to suppress a giggle but is unsuccessful. I’m pretty sure she finds hilarious the idea of Heathcliff attending an event at which people sometimes break into spontaneous clog dancing. I turn to look at Justin, sure I’ll see him struggling to suppress a giggle as well, but he isn’t. He looks just as miserable as he has since he’d received Heathcliff’s loving, affirming, supportive, heartfelt email.

“He’s . . . he’s the man I was going to marry before I completely fucked up my life – and his – and moved here,” he says.

Pooka and Sam look stunned, and I know it’s not at the idea of two men getting married; after all Pooka was a surrogate mother for the gay couple in their building. Not only that, but she’d insisted on natural childbirth and even refused an epidural despite having been in labor for twenty-two hours.

“You rejected the Goddess’s greatest gift, the Gift of Love, to live in a crappy apartment – sorry, Moira – in the East Village – and wait tables for which you get nothing but abuse and stingy tips?” Pooka asked incredulously.

Great. Just fucking great. Thanks a lot, Pook.

Sam reaches for Pooka’s hand and holds it tightly as though Justin’s ingratitude is a contagious mutant strain of Ebola. 

“Young man,” Sam says gravely. “You risk the wrath of She Who Gave Us All Life by casting aside True Love. You must come to one of our cleansing ceremonies.”

“I recommend against that,” I say. “They convinced me to go once, and it was traumatizing. I was forced to chant and dance like a Sufi without first being permitted to get snot-nosed drunk.”

“The Goddess does not prohibit us from searching for alternative plains of reality, but only through marijuana, mushrooms and coca leaves,” Pooka explains.

“What about beer that’s made with organic hops and blessed by the Dali Lama?”

Pooka and Sam glare at me before turning back to Justin.

“Seriously,” Sam says kindly. “True Love is worth fighting for – no matter how long and hard it is.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s _already_ long and hard. You should’ve heard the sounds I used to hear from Justin’s bedroom when Heathcliff came to visit.”

Pooka and Sam give me The Look. But Daphne – and even Justin – giggle.

“That’s true,” Daphne says. “Sex for them is definitely not complicated; it’s the non-sex stuff that seems to baffle them.”

Pooka and Sam look at Justin, who shrugs his acquiescence to Daphne’s opinion. They nod solemnly.

“What exactly is keeping the two of you from marrying if that’s what you both want?”

Justin gives them the dreaded “Hello, Duh” look. “Well, first of all I’m here, and he’s in Pittsburgh.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot planes and cars haven’t been invented yet.”

I almost fall out of the hand chair. I didn’t know Pooka even knew what snark is, let alone engage in it! I’m so impressed that I actually clap. She beams, but Sam looks distressed as though his wife has just transformed into Evil!Twin!Pooka.

“It’s not enough,” Justin says. “We need to be sharing a home, a bed . . . and I need to appear like I’m 100 percent happy to be there or Brian will decide I can only find true perfect happiness, or some such shit, away from him.”

“Not that he thinks only in terms of black and white,” I try to assure Pooka and Sam. “Occasionally, he’s able to imagine a world of light cream and charcoal grey. It’s a good thing he’s in love with a painter.”

“Is he colorblind?” Sam asks.

Justin quite literally throws up his hands. He’s had enough of Pooka and Sam and me – and probably even poor Daphne.

“That’s it,” he says. “I’m going out to get shit-faced and laid, though not necessarily in that order.” He grabs his coat and stalks out the door, slamming it behind him.

“How does he expect to get laid when he’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that reads ‘Legal or Jailbait? Proceed at your own risk’?” Pooka asks, sounding sensible and thus insane.

“Brian gave him that shirt when they first got together,” Daphne says. “I think it was his Brian-like way of trying to keep other guys’ hands off Justin’s ass. It was rather sweet.”

“Said ass, of course, being why Justin could pick someone up if he was wearing the clothes off a homeless dude who’d been wearing them for a month. The kid rocks that ass of his.”

Pooka agrees. So does Sam. God love his enlightened, Goddess-approved, bi-curious tendencies.

 

When a peevish man-child appears on the front steps of our building, I know instinctively that something terrible must’ve resulted from my brilliant little plan. He pulls an envelope out of his coat pocket and shakes it at me.

“What the hell is this?” he yells. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

I tilt my head and look at him. He doesn’t look like an evil leprechaun; he just looks kind of short and _really_ pissed-off. Like one of those Lollypop Guild midgets on the rag.

He opens the envelope, pulls out the photo of Matt and gets right up in my grill with it like Elliott does on SVU when forcing a perp to look at his victim.

“He’s gone, you know, and he left Ted in charge of everything – both the company and the club. You have no idea what a bad sign that is!”

I’m still tilting my head and looking at him. “And you are?” I ask in what I feel is an obvious invitation to introduce himself.

“He never leaves Ted in charge of _both_ the company _and_ the club. He’s way too much of a control freak for that. And he’s been gone for _ages_!”

I give up on the hope he’ll ever tell me what his name is.

“Have you checked Wuthering Heights?”

“Withering _what_?” he says, his voice full of frustration. “You did this last time I tried to talk to you, and it’s really annoying.”

Ah. The three a.m. voice, the master of the whispered caps. One of Heathcliff’s friends. “I meant,” I said slowly and clearly as though I’m talking to a very dense person or Sam when he’s stoned, “have you checked that house in the country of his? You told me that’s the place where he keeps his coffin. Is the lid open or closed?”

He’s got big eyes, kind of like the puppies in those traumatizing humane society ads that have Sarah MacLauchlan singing in the background. He looks confused and uncomplicatedly concerned. I take pity on him.

“I was alluding to the fact that Heathcliff might be a vampire.”

“Where’s Justin?” he asks, clearly haven given up on me.

“Work, he’ll be home soon,” I reply. “But let me just confess beforehand. Justin didn’t have anything to do with that photograph, and the only reason Daphne gave it to Heathcliff was because I coerced her. Justin doesn’t even know about it.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “God, I’m sick of this,” he says. I tell him that I can relate. It’s drizzly and cold outside, so I invite him up to the apartment.

After I’ve plied him with coffee and the last slice of Pooka and Sam’s dingleberry pie, he seems to relax a bit.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, holding his fork like a caveman and shoving pie in his mouth.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I say. “That’s the guy that Justin was quote/unquote cheating on Heathcliff with. Did you notice how much he looks like Heathcliff? It’s fucking creepy.”

“Brian must’ve thought so too, and I think it was exactly the creepiness that freaked him out. At least that’s my theory. He didn’t leave a note; he just left the photograph on the kitchen counter in his loft. I have keys, so when I didn’t hear from him after a while and Ted told me Brian had put him in charge of both his businesses, I went to the loft and found your little hand grenade.”

I frown. “It wasn’t intended to hurt him,” I say. “It was intended to show him that Justin needs and wants him so much that he’s settled for a mere look-alike. I thought it was proof of how much Heathcliff means to him and how miserable he’d be without him. I thought it was obvious.”

“Well, clearly it wasn’t,” he says. “Didn’t you consider the possibility that Brian might view this other guy as Justin’s attempt to not only get over him, but to more or less erase him, or, at the very least, replace him?”

“So you really think that’s what he thought?”

“I _know_ that’s what he thought. We’ve been best friends our whole lives. I know how warped his thinking can be.”

Shit.

“And you think Heathcliff believes Justin’s out to superimpose Matt’s presence on top of Justin’s memory of him? Does he really think that little of Justin?”

“No, he thinks that little of _himself_. That’s the problem. It always has been.”

Double shit.

I’m about to respond when a key turns in the lock. Justin’s home. As soon as he walks in and discovers the peevish puppy-eyed leprechaun, he cries “Michael, what are you doing here? What’s wrong? Is it Brain? Oh my God, it is, isn’t it? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Does it have something to do with Gus? Where is he?!”

Michael had stood up when Justin walked in; Justin drops his bag and grabs the little fellow by the collar.

“TELL ME, MICHAEL!!”

Michael wrenches himself out of Justin’s grasp.

“What do you care? You’re the one who cheated on him – again, I might add. If you cared about him at all, you’d treat him better. He’s already fucked up enough as he is. Why’d you have to throw this look-a-like guy in the mix?”

“ _Matt_?” Justin says incredulously. “First of all, I was not in love with the guy; he was never a threat to Brian, and second, he doesn’t look _anything_ like Brian . . . and what the fuck? How does Brian even know what he looks like anyway?”

I wince. “Uhm, long story,” I say in a rush of words. “But that’s in the past; the issue we have now is that Igor here says that Heathcliff has disappeared off the radar.”

Justin had been looking at me, but upon hearing my words, he immediately turns back to Michael.

“You said that?! Are you saying Brian is missing? I mean _really_ missing and not just spending some alone time somewhere? Did you check the loft . . . ?”

“Of course, I checked the loft!” Michael yells. “I’m not an idiot! But he’s not there and judging by the look of things, he hasn’t been there for a while!”

“He’s at the house then,” Justin says wildly. “Did you check the house?”

Michael takes a long, shaky breath. “Yes, I checked the house. His car was there, but he wasn’t. I knocked, I yelled, I even set off the alarm trying to break in and was arrested for trespassing when the cops showed up. If he’d been there, Brian would never have let that happen.”

Everyone stops talking – and possibly even breathing. The silence is strange and surreal. Michael and Justin are staring at each, no longer antagonists, but allies in their fear and concern.

“You don’t think . . . ?” Justin says.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. You haven’t been in Pittsburgh. You don’t know what it’s been like. It’s . . . fuck, I can’t even describe it – and I’m not sure I want to tell you since it’s your fucking fault!”

Justin swallows, and the color drains from his face.

“Hey, hold on,” I say, stepping between them. “Let’s not get personal. If you’re both really worried about Heathcliff – I mean Brian – if you’re both friends of Brian and you’re both worried about him, doesn’t it make sense not to tear each other to shreds? Seems to me there’ll plenty of time for that later.”

After a long tense few moments, Justin breaks the silence. “He wouldn’t,” he says firmly and clearly. “Brian would never kill himself.”

“I would’ve said so too, but now, after what I’ve seen and what he’s done, I don’t know if I’m as sure,” Michael says. “It’s not like he hasn’t considered it in the past.”

Justin collapses on the couch. He’s just staring up at Michael, searching for a sign that Michael might be full of shit – anything that could undermine and disprove Michael’s words.

“Wait,” I say. “Hold on here. Let’s not start talking about suicide. That’s called catastrophisizing, and it’s not helpful. Believe me.”

Both of them ignore me.

“We’ve got to get in the house,” Michael says. “Please tell me you have a key.”

Justin nods. He’s obviously in shock.

Meanwhile, I feel like the biggest shithead in the world – possibly even the universe. I stand frozen in the living room while Justin runs to his bedroom. A minute later, he emerges with a backpack.

“Don’t you have to show up at that new job you got at Hudson Gallery?” I ask, trying to feel like I’m being of some small use.

“Fuck the Hudson Gallery,” Justin says.

He’d been so happy when he’d been offered the job. He’d been trying to get work at a gallery since the first day he arrived. We’d even celebrated with a bottle of wine that cost more than five bucks. He’d been happy and positive and convinced that, once he and Brian got back together, the future would roll itself out before him like a welcoming carpet. Of course, I know the carpet is moth eaten and threadbare, but I didn’t want to piss on his parade. The important thing was that he felt that he’d accomplished something.

Now Justin was throwing it away because Heathcliff was enough of a nutcase to make him think that it might be possible that he killed himself. It was the height of manipulation. The last-straw solution to the problem that he’d realized he might not be the fucking center of the universe. Suicide is cowardly. It’s the ultimate “fuck you.” It’s selfish and cruel.

I should know because I’ve been there.

I watch from the window as Justin and Michael get into a cab and drive away. The apartment seems smaller and shittier than usual now that they’re gone. I collapse on the couch. The lava lamp always cheers me up. I turn it on and watch its satanic light dance on the walls, trying not to think about how much Brian reminds me of myself . . . and about what I’d done to the people I claimed I loved.

Justin had said Brian wouldn’t kill himself. My family and friends would’ve said the same thing about me. I’m smart. I’m funny. I have goals. I have plans. I’d worked so hard to get where I was. People like that don’t kill themselves.

But they do. Or at least they try to. I had the benefit of not having achieved all the things I’d set out to achieve in life. I knew what it was like to fail. It’s not clear that Brian does. From what Justin has said, it sounds like he succeeded at everything he’d set his mind to, and if he’d set his mind on killing himself, well then . . . maybe he would succeed at what I had merely attempted.

And if he did, it’ll be my fault.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final part. Thank you to all who read, commented and left kudos. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

I text Justin, telling him to let me know asap what’s going on, and then I email Daphne. I would’ve called her, but I thought there was a pretty high likelihood that she’s furious at me for convincing her to give Heathcliff the photo of Matt. I wasn’t ready to face her anger yet – at least not until Justin and the querulous munchkin find out what the hell has happened with Heathcliff. I can only deal with one category-five shit storm at a time. Believe me, dealing with multiple shit storms at once is nothing like being able to walk and chew gum.

In an effort to distract myself, I go into Justin’s room. It’s a mess. Clothes, sketchbooks, books, magazines, a half-empty mug of cold coffee with a cigarette butt floating in it. The wall next to his bed is covered with photos and sketches; unsurprisingly, they’re mostly of Heathcliff. Heathcliff laughing. Heathcliff glaring. Heathcliff dancing. Heathcliff sleeping. Heathcliff watching T.V. Heathcliff playing pool. Heathcliff holding a baby, and – uhm, yeah – Heathcliff stark naked and coming his brains out. He even looks crazy and tortured when he’s having an orgasm. Dude is never out-of-character.

But the thing that _really_ catches my eyes is a calendar from the MoMA. The days are crossed out with red ink. What the hell? If he was a woman, I’d assume Justin was keeping track of his cycle. But he isn’t. I take it down and flip through the previous months. Every day is crossed off as though he’s counting the days until something happens – something momentous. I hang the calendar back on the wall. Of course, I can guess what it all means. Writers are not known for withholding judgments in the absence of evidence. Justin’s counting down the days he’s been here – the days he’s lived without Heathcliff.

It’s unbearably sad – so sad that I return to the kitchen and dig around in the cabinets until I find that half-empty box of Franzia blush wine. God only knows how long it’s been around (perhaps even since that time I thought I was pregnant and threw a huge party when I got my period; considering how long it’s been since I had sex, that wine must be older than Pooka and Sam’s incontinent cat). Wine is wine though. And, plus, I was too traumatized by Justin’s calendar to take the time to run to the Alphabet City Discount Liquor Store. I think of calling Daphne, but then remember that I am an asshole who may have caused the death of the hottest guy on earth. Instead, I open one of my notebooks. Poetry always helps – it either makes you feel brilliant, in which case, huzzah! Or it makes you feel like you suck and should move back home and marry the nice boy next door.

_If you can get out of bed with nothing worse_  
than a creaky back and a scrap of a dream  
that you haven’t abandoned yet, then you’re  
still not too old to die young.  
Put down the gun; put the cap back on the pill bottle.  
Suicide’s not an end to pain, it’s just the beginning  
for those you leave behind and claimed you loved.  
For those who count the days until they can  
be with you again. 

Wow, that was cheerful. I close the notebook and start pacing. It’s getting dark. The old lady across the street has her light on, and I watch her get “all tarted up” (as my mother use to say). Justin and I had decided she’s a hooker. At the time we thought it up, we were high and found the idea hilarious, but as I watch her tonight, squeezing into a leopard-print dress that barely covers her granny undies, I just feel sad . . . and very scared. Life can sometimes serve up some pretty fucking inedible shit that you still, nonetheless, have to eat.

 

Despite the sheer weirdness, I call Jennifer and tell her everything. And then, even weirder, I ask her to tell me a story about Justin and Heathcliff. Something cute, something funny. She only has to think for a couple seconds:

“It was Brian’s birthday, I don’t remember which one. Justin wanted to go over to Brian’s loft – Brain’s always a recluse on his birthdays. He asked me and Molly to go with him because he said Brian wouldn’t freak out in our presence. So I made him a cake, and Molly gift wrapped one of her old Disney movies. _Snow White_. I remember because I couldn’t wait to see Brian’s face when he opened her present.” 

“He was wrapped in a sheet when he answered the door. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed even though it was two in the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t look happy to see us, but then Molly said 'happy birthday, Bri,' and gave him the movie. He gave me and Justin the most appalled look, and then it was as though Justin and I realized the exact same thing at the exact same time. The wicked stepmother. The one with the mirror and the aging complex . . .”

“Ah, yes,” I say. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all.”

“Precisely. But Molly hadn’t noticed anything was wrong; she grabbed the movie out of Brian’s hand and raced to the T.V. I tried to tell her that maybe Brian would like to watch it later after the cake, but she was adamant. We all sat down on the couch and watched it together. Every time the wicked stepmother appeared, Justin grabbed my hand and squeezed it. We were both biting our cheeks to keep from laughing at Brian’s horrified expression. But then the dwarves showed up, and Molly started jumping up and down, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s you,’ she said to Brian. ‘Grumpy.’ That’s why she’d given him the movie, not because of the getting-older-and-uglier thing, but because Brian reminded her of Grumpy.”

“We all started laughing. It was hilarious. Brian grabbed Justin and kissed him, saying that if he was Grumpy, then Justin was Dopey. And then Molly chimed in and said I was Sneezy because of my spring allergies. I don’t think I’d ever seen Brian laugh like that. He seemed like a little boy. I cut us huge slices of cake, and we ate them on the couch while we watched the rest of the movie. Brian was still wrapped in his sheet, and he got cake all over it when Justin did that cake in the face thing people do at their weddings. I never know how Brian’s going to react to Justin’s playfulness, but all he did was laugh and do it right back. Then Molly did it to Justin, and Justin did it to me, and all of a sudden we were all smooshing cake in each other’s faces.”

“I guess it was then that I realized they should be together – Brian and Justin, I mean. They make each other laugh, and they’re happiest when they’re together even when they’re going through a rough patch. That’s why I thought they should go ahead with the marriage. Not because I didn’t want Justin to go to New York. I agreed with Brian that it would be the best possible thing for him, but I just didn’t see why they couldn’t get married anyway. Lots of people have long-distance marriages, and I just knew they’d be happier. Justin wouldn’t worry so much, and Brian wouldn’t be so miserable. But when it comes to things like that, Brian isn’t very imaginative. Marriage was that big house, two kids and a dog to him. For such a relentless non-conformist, he’s the biggest traditionalist in the world when it comes to love and marriage and family.”

She falls silent, and I can tell that her attention is no longer on me and our phone call: it's on her son and should-be son in law.

“I need to go,” she says after a moment. “Molly will be home from lacrosse practice, and I should get dinner started. When I hear something, I’ll call you.”

“Same here,” I say and hang up. 

 

The four-in-the-morning phone call comes through on the land line. When I answer, a female voice says “This is a collect call from Justin Taylor. Do you wish to accept it?” I must’ve screeched at her to hurry up and put him through because she makes a constipated sound. But then Justin’s on the phone and we’re talking to each other at the same time.

“Where’s your cell, I . . .

“Broke it. Long story, I’m at . . .

“ . . . I’ve been waiting for you to call all fucking . . .”

“. . . the hospital . . 

“. . . night. Where the hell are you? You sound like you’re . . .”

“. . . with Brian and . . .”

“. . . in a hospital. Wait a minute! Heathcliff’s in a . . .”

“. . . Daphne. It’s been really scary, that’s why . . .”

“. . . hospital? Is he alright? What the hell . . .”

“. . . I didn’t call sooner. I wanted to . . .”

“. . . happened? Did he try to . . .”

“. . . make sure he was going to be . . .”

“. . . kill himself? Jesus. Fuck. I’m so . . .”

“. . . okay. He had hypothermia and . . .”

“. . . sorry. This is all my . . .”

“. . . and was super dehydrated. Plus, he’s got . . .”

“. . . my fault. Justin, I’m so fucking sorry. Is he . . .”

“. . . a broken leg, and he broke the same . . .”

“. . . going to live? Is he . . .”

“. . . collarbone he broke on the Liberty Ride, but there’s . . .”

“. . . going to be okay?”

“. . . no brain damage.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Me? What the hell are _you_ talking about?”

Daphne must’ve grabbed the phone away from him because the next words I hear are the sweetest – if most bizarre – words I’ve ever heard spoken in her calm, patient voice.

“Stop flipping out,” she says. “It’s not what I know you think it is. Brian didn’t try to kill himself. He fell off a horse.”

A _horse_?

“Let me guess,” I say. “He was out chasing Justin’s ghost across a remote moor, and his steed stepped in a hole and threw him off.”

“Moira,” Daphne says kindly but firmly. “Enough, please. The _Wuthering Heights_ thing has run its course. Say the following after me: ‘Brian.’”

“Brian,” I say.

“One more time.”

“Brian.”

“There we go. Doesn’t that feel good?”

I laugh. “Okay, point taken. What the hell happened to _Brian_?”

“Apparently, he’d bought a horse for Justin at some point and has been keeping it at the house – and wouldn’t you guess? It’s an unmanageable stallion mustang. Are you surprised?”

“Not in the least.”

“Neither were we. He’s beautiful, though. I’m sure Justin will show you pictures when he goes back to New York.”

“So,” I say, feeling the snark return along with the color in my face. “Let me guess: the horse tried to talk some sense into Brian, and when it failed, it did the next best thing and kicked him in the head?”

Daphne ignores my question and instead, unexpectedly asks whether Pooka or Sam are ordained church officials.

I see where the conversation is going and try to cut it off at the pass. “Officials of what? The Church of the Goddess of Organic Vegetables and Legalized Pot?”

“Shut up,” Daphne says amiably. “I thought someone the other night mentioned they’d officiated at a lesbian wedding, remember?”

“The dog park wedding?”

Daphne giggles. “Yeah, that one. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, and I remembered I stepped in shit – of the literal kind, I mean.”

“Anyway, can’t one of them perform a marriage ceremony?”

“I can find out,” I reply.

“Do it quickly, okay?”

“Because Justin wants to marry Heath . . . I mean Brian while he’s still addled and confused? Isn’t there a law against that?”

“Only when it pertains to sex.”

“Ah, I see. You can’t fuck an unconscious person, but you _can_ marry them?”

She laughs again. It sounds as though a huge burden had recently been lifted from her shoulders.

“Just find out,” she says. “Justin says he wants it to happen as soon as possible and with as little fanfare as possible. The only people who are going to be there are Justin and Brian, of course, Jennifer, Molly, me and you.”

“Me? Why would they want me at their wedding? They hardly know me.”

“Because they want the ceremony to take place in your apartment, and even Brian agrees it would be rude to kick you out.”

“What about the churlish man-child?”

“Michael? He’s pretty pissed off that he’s not invited – especially since Brian and Justin are inviting me, but if he came, then all the rest of the Pittsburgh clan – most of all Deb – would feel hurt and left out.”

“Well, uhm. Okay. I guess this all just leaves one last question: What the fuck are you talking about??”

Daphne sighs. “Details later, now call Pooka and go buy some paper plates and plastic forks. Apparently the grooms want take-out Thai for their nuptials.”

 

The horse is fucking gorgeous.

Justin shows me a zillion photos. It’s basically the equine version of Brian. He also shows me pictures of the dumpy, disheveled miniature pony that Justin apparently insisted on buying to keep Bronte (I shit you not) company.

“See how big he is?” Brian tells us over Bangkok Curry. “Imagine falling off the fucker at a gallop.”

“But he did stay around to make sure you were going to live,” says Justin, putting his arm around Brian’s shoulders and kissing his cheek. Brian looks as though there’s a mosquito buzzing around his head, but he doesn’t push Justin away. Apparently, he’s cuddly within fifteen minutes of getting married. If I could, I’d advise Justin not to expect it’ll continue after Sam’s homemade mead is gone, the fake floral garlands come off the hand chair, and the afghan is restored to its former place. (Everyone, even Justin’s little sister, had told me to hide the afghan. I’d tried not to feel hurt.)

“Others have probably already asked and been told, but what the hell were you thinking when you lost your head and rode off into the night with it tucked under your arm like Ichabod Crane?”

Brian shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says as though that was an answer. Although apparently it is since everyone else seems to accept it as such.

“Can you even ride a horse?”

“I’d had a couple of lessons.”

“A virtual horse whisperer,” I say before devouring my spring roll in one bite. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“Didn’t really care if I was,” he says matter-of-factly. I look at him closely, and he looks right back at me.

“Don’t ever even fucking _think_ about doing something like that again,” I say with feeling. “Your welfare is no longer just your own business.”

“Never was,” Justin interjects. I turn away when Brian kisses him tenderly. It’s like looking a Strawberry Shortcake doll in its fucking cloyingly freckled face. I’d waived the No Shmoop In My Presence rule for Pooka and Sam, but Justin and Brian haven’t even applied for amnesty yet. One has to go through the proper channels with these things.

“Alright, time for gifts,” Justin says.

I glare at him. He’d specifically promised there’d be no gifts, so I hadn’t bought one. But then he hands me a small box wrapped in silver paper. I make a “what the fuck is this” face at him.

“It’s from both of us. Just a little something for being such a good friend,” he says.

I look at Brian. He just arches an eyebrow and shrugs. I unwrap the gift and open the box.

It’s a key.

“Don’t worry,” Justin says quickly when I don’t answer right away. “You can bring the hand chair and the afghan and even the giant rat if you want.”

“She cannot bring the giant rat,” Brian says in a voice of calm but unquestionable authority.

“What the heck is it?” I ask, looking at first one and then the other.

“A key to our new apartment,” Justin gushes. “Here, look.” He hands me a photo. It’s of a brownstone walk-up. “Tribeca, right next to Washington Market Park.”

I stare at him. “ _Our_ new apartment?” I say.

“Here’s how it is,” Brian replies, with a sweeping gesture of disdain. “I can’t come _here_ every other weekend. This building is one code violation away from being condemned and one used mattress away from an infestation of bed bugs.”

“Okay, fine. I get that part. But where does the _me_ come into it?” I ask.

“You come into it because the twat seems have taken a liking to you and doesn’t want to leave you behind.”

I turn to look at Justin. He smiles and shrugs. “It’s true,” he says. “And get this: It has _two_ bathrooms.”

Now I’m just staring. I only know my mouth is hanging open because of the laughter and the pointing.

“Really?” I ask turning to Justin.

“Really,” he says. “There really are two bathrooms.”

“Not _that_ ,” I say. “Tribeca. The apartment. Me and you. Don’t you want it to be just for you and Brian?”

“Brian’s not going to be living there,” Justin says. “He’ll only be visiting. Who’s going to keep me company the rest of the time? And just think, now that you wouldn’t have to pay rent, you can quit you shitty part time jobs and focus on writing something other than fanfic.”

Daphne comes over and gives me a hug, and everyone starts laughing again when I start to cry like an idiot.

“Told you he’d grow on you,” Daphne says. “Remember how much you bitched and moaned about the prospect of a roommate? I just had this gut feeling that you two – and even Brian – would get along famously.”

“But I can’t . . .”

“Bullshit you can’t,” Brian says. “Just accept it graciously so we can have some of that pie your friends brought with them.”

Ah, yes. Another dingleberry pie. I look around the room through teary eyes – everyone I love or will surely come to love are here, and I’m happy. Not in an I’m-medicated-to-the-gills kind of happy, but really truly happy. I haven’t felt like this for a very _very_ long time.

“The lava lamp’s coming too,” I say, looking at Brian. “Just deal with it.”

Brian shrugs. “I’ve put up with greater inconveniences,” he says nudging his new husband who’s even cuter than usual in his pale blue tux and ruffled shirt. “I’m sure I can survive your crappy décor.”

Ah, quite the charmer, our Heathcliff. I smile and flip him the bird. Perhaps, just perhaps, I won’t mind seeing him at the breakfast table every other Sunday.

That said, I tell neither him nor Justin about the cat I intend to adopt. Pooka and Sam are going to have a baby, and apparently their cat views babies as large balls of catnip. I smile benignly. What they don’t know yet won’t hurt them. Or piss on their couch.

 

To my relief, the new apartment doesn’t look like something out of the _Architectural Digest_ or _Fabulous Homes of Wealthy Fags Quarterly_. It’s in Tribeca, but it isn’t too Tribecabian. Yes, it does have two bathrooms and even a pantry, but it’s small and the wood floor looks like it needs sanding and finishing. There’s a tiny upstairs loft accessible by a pull down staircase where Justin can paint and a small library nook with built-in bookcases and a window facing south. When we move in, there’s already a writing desk in it. There’s also a single book in one of the bookcases, and, of course, it’s _Wuthering Heights_ \- and not just a used-bookstore-Penguin version. The binding is loose and the covers are mottled with water stains, but nonetheless, my heart starts pounding when I take it down off the self and open it. Sure enough – First American edition. It must’ve cost a fucking fortune!

“Damn you, Brian,” I mutter under my breath. Now I’ll have to let him banish the hand chair and lava lamp to my bedroom. Master manipulator or evil genius? The jury’s still out. Nonetheless, I hold the beautiful book close against my chest. It smells deliciously old. When I return it to the shelf, a postcard slips out from the pages and falls to the floor. There’s a painting of a woman standing on a moor, her cloak and hair tossed about in the wind. I pick it up and turn it over.

 _Dear Cathy,_ it says. _Chill out, you bunny-boiler. Yours, Heathcliff_. I grin and roll my eyes. Pot-kettle, Kinney. Pot-fucking-kettle.

 

 _fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come share my new obsession at [ my LJ](http://queerasfray.livejournal.com/) . All fanatics - both current and past - are more than welcome.


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